


Six Heartbeats in Yoshiwara

by daphnerunning



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Brothels, Edo Period, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: The ship UNDEAD doesn't often put into port. An apprentice actor doesn't often let his clients feel the callouses from wielding a sword in days gone by. A young foreigner does't often say "yes" when he's asked if he wants to get to know someone beautiful a little better.Welcome to the theater Akatsuki.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of possibly unfamiliar terms at the end! :)

“Oogami.”

“Yeah?”

“I thought you said there were no women working in this theater.”

“Yeah. Pay attention when I’m talking to ya in the future.”

“But...”

Otogari Adonis stares at the stage, brow furrowed slightly. He resists the urge to ask again, just for clarification, for all of five seconds. “Oogami. That is a woman dancing.”

Sakuma Rei, his captain and friend, leans over and whispers out of the side of his mouth, “Lower your voices, boys. They’re not ours to distract yet.”

There are perhaps fifty people in the audience, men between the ages of teenagers and elderly, all hanging on every word out of the actors’ painted lips. The theater reminds Adonis just a bit of his mother’s favorite haunt, back home across the sea, though she’d never painted herself up like the actors onstage. It seems incredible that none of them are female. The one in the lovely robes with a painted face and long shiny dark hair spilling down the back of the robes...surely, Oogami is mistaken.

There’s a wild cheer at the end of the play, and each actor shuffles offstage, just before a man walks on, carrying a shamisen and wearing thin spectacles. “Honored guests, please allow us to offer you refreshments in the tea house. We hope you have enjoyed our performance...and that you will be satisfied with all performances yet to come.”

That gets a murmur of excitement, and Sakuma nudges their shoulders, leading the three of them downstairs. Before they can enter the teahouse, Hakaze Kaoru hangs back, looking around with a little flush on his face, eyes focused on another humble-looking building with garish decorations out front. “I’m gonna take off, yeah? Have fun and all that...”

Sakuma follows the direction he’s looking, and smirks. “How are _you_ going to afford an oiran on what I pay you?”

“Ehh, so mean! Maybe I’ll charm her out of her good senses.”

“Gross,” Oogami mutters, shouldering Hakaze out of the way. “C’mon, Adonis, I’ll show you where the real talent happens.”

The teahouse is a far more intimate affair, and men jostle each other, many of them carrying cloth-wrapped packages in gorgeous colors. Adonis quickly identifies about half of them as food just by the smells, and the other half probably as clothes, lace, ribbons, etcetera. Life on a “trading” ship has taught him a great deal about the worth of objects he’d always just assumed appeared in his father’s hall. 

Adonis looks around, taking in the sights and sounds of the unfamiliar location, turning to his companion for clarification. “Oogami. I smell food. Is there going to be meat?”

His friend shrugs, craning his neck to look around the room. “Do I look like the kind of guy that goes to these places all the time?”

“I don’t know. What would a man who goes to these places all the time look like?”

“Oi, you making fun of me?”

Before Oogami can snarl, which Adonis prepares to placidly ignore, a large hand comes down on his shoulder, making the man tense. The figure of a very well-built man comes into the light, with red hair flaming out from the knot it’s tied into, one brow raised high. His muscles are obvious even through the loose robes he wears, and there’s a hint of familiarity in his face and voice. “You causing a scene in my house, runt?”

“K-Kiryuu-san!” Oogami’s face clears into excitement, then quickly into a fake scowl, shoulders tensing. “Showing the new guy around. He’s never been to a kabuki theater before.”

“And you take him here first?” The man asks, amused now, not letting go of Oogami’s shoulder. “I mean, not like we’re lacking on production values. The costumes look good, right? I didn’t do the embroidery, that stuff’s too tiny for my fingers, but all the basic construction you see, that’s all my work. Hey, and the new kid isn’t bad, right?”

The man jerks his thumb towards the center of the room, where a crowd of patrons suddenly rushes forward, bowing low and presenting gifts to the woman from the stage earlier. She bows gracefully, smiles and nods, but Adonis finds himself watching her right hand. He notices the callouses, the strength there, but more than anything, he notices the way that hand reaches across her body, fingering the end of her fan like it’s a weapon ready to be drawn, almost as if she can’t bring herself to let it go. It’s that motion, and the fierce spark in her eyes, that makes Adonis fumble in his pockets, frowning when they turn up empty. “Oogami. Lend me something nice. I want to give her a present.”

“Eh? What makes you think I’ve got somethin’ like that on me?”

Cold ceramic suddenly presses against Adonis’s cheek from behind, and he jumps, turning around to see his Captain standing there, a cheeky grin on his face. He holds out the object, a small jar of what smells like cleaning supplies. “You’ve got your eye set on that one? Figures. I’ll make arrangements. This is good sake, it’s a nice present.”

“Oi, Sakuma-san, you’re gonna just--he doesn’t even know what--”

“I’m sure our new friend will conduct himself just fine. Can we make this happen, Kuro?”

The big redhaired man lets go of Oogami, rubbing his chin. “Let me talk to Mother.”

“Oh, you don’t need to trouble yourself.” Sakuma claps the man on the arm, winking. “I’ve got a bit of history on that front.”

The man snorts. “You’ll do as you wish, I suppose.”

“Oh, and Kuro? Take that puppy outside and teach him a lesson.”

“Eh? Sakuma, you bastard! Lemme--oi, Adonis, help me out here--”

“He’s fine,” Sakuma assures Adonis, as the big man hauls Oogami out of the teahouse. “Honestly, he’d rather spar with that guy than have to be on his best behavior in here. Gimme a minute.” 

He disappears, and a moment later, Adonis watches his dark head appear next to the thin man wearing spectacles from earlier. The man looks annoyed, arms folded in front of his chest, and the conversation appears to grow somewhat heated. Adonis stands, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward and out of place as he feels, the soft woven fiber of the floor mats warm and smooth against the soles of his feet. Most of the other men in the room are at least half drunk, and Adonis feels the urge to move closer to the woman from the stage. She isn’t particularly small, for a woman, but many of the men here have little sense of propriety. He watches as one man reaches out a hand, making a comment Adonis can’t here, plucking at the woman’s bright red under-robe. The woman’s eyes flash, and Adonis can’t miss the way her shoulders (they’re remarkably broad) tense into what is unmistakably a fighting stance for just a second, fingers twitching to the hilt of her fan again. 

The man with glasses speaks a sharp word, and her shoulders relax, eyes dropping guiltily to the floor as she bows a low apology to the man who’d grabbed her. Distaste curls in Adonis’s stomach. 

He’s no fool. This is a pleasure-house, though not one of the kinds that he’s been exposed to before. A woman like this is likely expected not only to flirt, but to allow drunken men like this to do things to her, things that Sakuma is likely negotiating for him right now. He’s no fool, and he’s no innocent child, either, to try and burn down every place where a human might be mistreated. 

There’s just something about the fire in her eyes that warms him.

The man with glasses grabs the woman’s arm, though not hard, and says something into her ear. She blinks, and starts to look around the room searchingly when he reprimands her again, and she bows low, hurrying from the room to the sad protestations of the other patrons. Sakuma makes his way back, looking pleased with himself, and says in Adonis’s ear, “Let my friend take you to one of the upstairs rooms. You wanna get to know that pretty thing, right?”

Slowly, knowing full well what he’s agreeing to, Adonis nods. 

“Good lad. And don’t worry. Souma may be new, but I’m sure you’ll have a good time. Don’t forget your own strength, all right?”

Adonis nods again, then adds, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, my boy. I’m planning on plenty of my own brand of fun tonight.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sakuma,” the man with glasses says dryly, giving Adonis a bow. “Sir, follow me. Your captain told me you’ve all just come from the baths, but should you wish to bathe again, we have an arrangement with the onsen next door.”

“Ah...thank you. I think I’m still clean, though.” He’s certainly cleaner than he’s been in months at sea, after gratefully scrubbing himself raw in the baths they’d taken earlier after docking. 

The man bows again, and shows him to another door, sliding the paper frame open with another bow. “Please wait here. You will be attended to shortly. Should any trouble arise, I’ll be right down the hall to attend to you.” 

Adonis might not have lived in Japan for his whole life, but he _thinks_ he knows a subtle warning when he hears one. “I will not cause trouble.”

The man hesitates, and adds, “Or if Souma does. Sorry in advance if so.”

Adonis nods, which seems to satisfy the man, and enters the room.

The woman from onstage sits in front of a low table boasting a teapot and two cups, and lowers her head in a bow. “Welcome, my lord. It is my pleasure to serve you this evening.”

Her voice is far different than it had been onstage--deeper, more resonant, and Adonis kneels on the other side of the table, bowing in return, though he isn’t entirely sure how deep to make the motion. “Hello. Is your name Souma? Mine is Adonis.”

She raises her head, cocking it to the side slightly, a small frown on her brow. “A...donisu?”

“Yes.” Adonis looks at her for a moment, and realizes something. “Oh. You’re a man.”

There’s that spark in her--his eye again, that sudden flash of determination that he’d seen in the tea house before, but it’s quickly buried. He lowers his head again, as if subservience is something he’s practiced to the point of perfection, but never quite internalized. “If my acting skills are to your taste, I may be whoever delights you this evening. Please allow me to serve you tea.”

Adonis nods, and watches the young man pour. “You’re very good at that,” he ventures.

“Ah? Is this mockery?”

“No, no. I...” Adonis frowns. “I haven’t been in Japan long. Sorry if I’ve said something that--”

“You’ve traveled? Where? Other countries? On a ship? On the sea? Have you seen many places--have you seen the minogame so old the seaweed grows on their shells, or--” The young man’s eyes light up, and he scoots closer, hardly containing the excitement in the tensing of his fingers, the eagerness in his shoulders. “Ahhh, my apologies, I shouldn’t--”

“It’s fine,” Adonis interrupts, wrapping his hand around the tea, giving what he hopes is an encouraging smile. It seems to work, from the way Souma’s expression clears. “Yes. My mother is a performer in my homeland. My father is Japanese. He asked my friend, my Captain, to take me on as an apprentice. So. Here I am. We have sailed...” He thinks about it, then nods to himself. “Many places. Most islands of Japan. Korea. China. Okinawa. Russia. But I was born...far, far away.” 

He makes to stop talking, but Souma’s hand grips his wrist, urgent and enraptured. “Your hand,” he murmurs, and Souma makes to pull away, but Adonis catches it. “You have strong hands. And hard spots.”

Souma’s face flushes, and he tries again to pull away, only to find himself caught, forcing himself to relax. “I am sorry it does not please you, Adonisu-dono.”

“Oh. I don’t think I said that.” Adonis turns Souma’s hand over in his grasp, letting his fingers brush against those callouses, ones echoed in his own broad hands. “I like knowing that you can defend yourself. That’s good.”

Souma’s breath hitches, and he stares, as if Adonis had said something far more invasive, cheeks slowly coloring red. “Adonisu-dono,” he whispers, reaching his other hand up to cup Adonis’s face, “please smile like that for me again, if it isn’t too intimate a favor to ask.”

All the words flee from Adonis’s mind. It’s difficult to make them behave anyway, when he’s so much more at home singing or doing physical work, but with someone this lovely looking at him so adoringly, it’s hard to think of anything at all. “Sorry, I...” He trips over his words, thinking of the cool touch to his face, the sparkling honesty in the young man’s eyes. “I, sometimes people are frightened of me because of my size...”

Souma’s eyes flash, and he moves forward, kneeling close enough that his knees brush Adonis’s through several layers of fabric. “I,” he says, impassioned with every syllable, even if his personal pronoun sounds falsely feminine, for someone else’s pleasure, “am not afraid of anything, Adonisu-dono. Please delight in my company as much as I do yours.”

With that, his hands set to work, swiftly circling his arms around Adonis’s waist to untie his obi, lingering close enough that Adonis could, if he were brave, lean down just a tiny bit and...

Souma’s lips taste of chestnuts and shiso, and Adonis is brave enough to seek more of that taste. There’s a sudden spark of tension where Souma gasps in a breath, nearly pulling away before he leans in closer, arms pausing in their work to clutch at Adonis’s waist. Adonis is fairly certain now that he’s right, and Souma has trained as something far different than a child of pleasure, with a life completely unlike the sad-eyed women he’d seen paraded in front of the wealthy families in his home country. 

_Good._

He draws back from the kiss, and catches a glimpse of something bright-hungry, something startled and too warm in Souma’s eyes. His hands falter; when they aren’t rigging a sail or holding a blade, it’s sometimes difficult to remember what to do with them, so Adonis lets them hang in the air, unsure. “Do I...touch you? I haven’t ever been in a situation like this before.”

“Adonisu-dono...” Souma swallows, licking his lips, and Adonis follows each tiny motion of the point of that pink tongue. “Please allow me to show you my skills. I have been working very hard to learn them.”

Adonis isn’t entirely sure what to say to that, so he nods, which seems to satisfy Souma. The next moment, his obi is being neatly folded, joined by the outer layer of his kimono, then the under layer. Once, strong hands urge him up to kneeling to unwrap the rest of it, and Adonis complies, rewarded when Souma’s rough, cool hands slide over his skin, leaving him only in his fundoshi. “You’re so warm to touch,” Souma murmurs, stroking his palms over Adonis’s shoulders, then down to his chest. “And so strong.” The eyes he turns up are full of nothing less than worship, and Adonis’s heart thuds oddly against his ribcage. 

“Can I...touch you, too?”

Long lashes sweep down, and Souma looks like he wants to say something, but changes his mind, offering, “You can do whatever you like to me, Adonisu-dono. I’m here to give you pleasure.”

Adonis fumbles for words. He wants to say something about how that isn’t quite right, about how he can’t imagine pleasure as something to take or give instead of sharing, how all he’d wanted was a chance to drink tea together and tell Souma how beautiful he is, about how someone so proud and lovely shouldn’t have to bow and serve someone like him. But he’d also known what he was getting into, when Sakuma had asked whether he wanted to “get to know” the pretty young kabuki actor, and it isn’t his place to demand something that Souma isn’t able or willing to give. 

“I hope,” he says quietly, his own fingers feeling clumsy by comparison when he unties the painted blue sash, letting the outer robe fall to reveal a bright red one underneath, “that tonight, I can share some...good feelings with you.”

“Adonisu-dono...”

Souma shrugs out of his robes, leaving him in little more than the paint on his face, with long dark hair spilling down the length of his back. Adonis lets his hands rest on Souma’s waist, thumbs gently stroking the skin there, feeling lean abdominal muscles flex and tense with every breath he takes. “We should move to the futon,” Souma suggests, and Adonis’s pulse quickens under his skin as he nods.

The futon is covered with soft cotton that seems as if it has been washed many times, though it smells fresh and clean. The fabric is warm against Adonis’s knees when he kneels, and Souma surprises him, moving to sit astride his lap, bringing them into close contact faster than he was expecting. “You came here to me for this, yes?” Souma whispers, hands coming up to caress Adonis’s face, then slide down to his chest.

Adonis nods. It would be stupid to deny, when every touch of Souma’s fingers makes his skin prickle, makes his muscles tense and twitch, makes him want to give in to the primal urges he works so hard to contain. 

“Then let me...” Souma reaches down, and fingers deft with practice find the end of his fundoshi, unwrapping it faster than Adonis can do himself. One side of his hand brushes against his swiftly hardening cock, and Adonis grunts, arms going around Souma to pull him close almost without meaning to, drawing a little squeak from the other man. “A-ah, sorry, did I--”

_It’s just been a long time_ , Adonis wants to say, but kisses Souma instead, tilting his chin up, cupping his face with all the gentleness he can muster. Souma relaxes into the kiss, but just for a moment, surging up to straddle him more firmly as he unwinds his own last cloth. 

And then there’s nothing between their beating hearts but skin, and Adonis doesn’t remember leaning forward, pressing Souma down against the scant comfort of the futon, feeling that lean, muscular form tense and arch against his own, chests pressing together, slender arms looped around his neck, legs splayed artlessly to the sides as Souma parts them eagerly. Just that act is enough to make Adonis so hard it aches, and he can’t stop now, trailing a hand down Souma’s flat belly, not stopping until he feels silky hairs at the tips of his fingers. 

“Adonisu-dono,” Souma breathes, back arching as his thighs tense, shivering as he lays back on the futon. 

“Yes?” Adonis asks, letting his hand wrap around Souma’s flushed length, feeling how hot at least that part of him is, dragging a finger through the bead of clear, sticky liquid at the tip.

Souma trembles, lead lolling back, eyes closed. “I just...like the taste of your name,” he whispers.

Adonis takes that moment to steal another kiss, though the eagerness with which it’s reciprocated makes him think this is little thievery. Souma clings to his neck, legs wrapping around his waist, and Adonis claims his mouth over and over again, sucking on his lip, tasting everything there is inside, nibbling on the tip of his tongue. He drinks down the squeals and whimpers that drags out of Souma’s throat, thirsty for more, and he surges forward again, feeling his cock rub against the crease of Souma’s thigh and hip, dragging a groan from both of them. 

“I want you,” Souma breathes, so blunt that Adonis doesn’t bother to doubt him. 

He nods, and reluctantly lets go, easing him over, turning him facedown on the futon with little resistance, lifting his hips so he’s on his hands and knees. 

“There’s, next to the bed, the oil, I can do it if you--”

“I know what to do.”

Adonis dips his fingers into the pot of scented oil, one hand comfortably low on Souma’s back, his heart beating fast, his cock twitching in readiness, every part of him feeling hot and overstimulated and ready to burst. He drags his fingers down his own cock, hissing out a breath as the skin jumps, sensitive and already stretched too-tightly over swollen flesh, then between Souma’s toned thighs, making the other man jump.

“Ah...a little higher, yes?”

“This is good.”

Adonis starts to slide forward, burying himself between those slick thighs, when Souma moves fast, twisting around with an indignant scowl on his face. “How--no!”

Adonis stops still, panting with the effort of not moving, hand going to the base of his cock to squeeze, giving himself some relief. This is frustrating, confusing, that he needs to stop when he should be already in the throes of pleasure right now, and he’d thought Souma wanted that too. “You don’t, don’t want me?”

Souma’s expression is injured, but still offended. “I am not some low class boy of a kagemajaya, Adonisu-dono! I would never stoop so low as to satisfy a man with my thighs!”

“Um...I’m sorry?” Adonis fumbles to apologize, eyes wide in confusion. “What...are we doing, then?”

Souma blinks. “In your country, do men...do such things?”

“How else?”

“Oh.” Souma licks his lips, eyes darting down to where Adonis is still flushed and hard, and swallows visibly. “In your country...are all men...so large?”

“I don’t know,” Adonis says honestly. “I haven’t seen all of them.”

A smile flickers across Souma’s face, and he moves, gently pushing Adonis back, urging him to lie down on the futon. “Let me show you how a proper onnagata kagema does it in Yoshiwara,” he breathes, dipping his own fingers into the oil. That hand disappears behind him, trailing down, and Adonis watches, enraptured, as Souma’s face changes, lips parting, eyes fluttering closed in tense, urgent need. Adonis knows the boy is an actor, yes, but he’d never imagined a performance like this. 

After a few moments that nearly have him coming in his own hand, Souma withdraws, straddling Adonis’s hips, kneeling astride him. Adonis has only a moment to wonder what it is they’re about to do, if not--

And then Souma sinks down, the blunt head of Adonis’s cock catching against the tight hole in back, and Japan seems a lot more interesting.

His hands naturally move to Souma’s hips, trying to help guide him down when his entire world narrows to how Souma’s hole is _hot tight sweet slick_ sinking down onto him, and he feels Souma shiver and hiccup, the muscles of his abdomen twitching, thighs trembling. Souma’s head is bowed, a thin sheen of sweat forming over his hairline, as he slowly sinks down centimeter by centimeter, bracing his hands on Adonis’s chest to steady himself. “A...doni...su...dono...” he whispers, voice breaking. “It’s...”

Adonis wants to ask if Souma is all right, if it’s too much in what seems like an incredibly tiny place, but nothing in his world matters, nothing but the searing, aching pleasure of being inside something so tight and hot it feels as if he’ll die happily from it. His body moves without his permission, hands tightening on Souma’s waist, his own hips jerking up, and it drags a sharp cry from Souma’s lips. 

“A-ah! It’s so--” 

One more thrust, and Adonis’s thighs nestle against the curve of Souma’s ass, and Souma’s shout turns into a moan, head rolling back as he squirms. It’s hard to tell whether he’s eager or uncomfortable, but the way he tenses and rises up, then drops down again is far more telling. 

Adonis can’t even spare the breath to thank the gods of his father or his mother that he isn’t hurting Souma, not when he can’t think of anything beyond finding _more_ of this feeling, rocking into Souma’s trembling body, grinding up faster and faster, urged on by Souma’s gyrating hips, letting his hands move to squeeze those toned thighs, that narrow waist, those full hips. 

The noise of their bodies slapping together grows louder, more urgent, and Souma lets out a noise that Adonis could never hope to identify, a pleading, aching wail that he hopes won’t bring the man with the glasses running. 

“Adonisu-dono,” Souma groans, hands scrabbling at Adonis’s chest.

Adonis opens his mouth to try and say something, but it’s too hot, too tight, too slick, too much, too wet, too fast, too hard, and all he can do is shout wordlessly when he feels his body tip over the edge, burying himself deep inside Souma’s lithe body as he spills his seed. 

Souma’s cries grow higher, staccato yelps for the last few harsh thrusts, until he finally stills atop Adonis, resting with the thickness of his cock still pulsing within him. A few gasping hiccups later, Adonis looks up to see tears streaking down Souma’s face, and his blood runs cold.

“I hurt you?”

Souma shakes his head, wiping at his face, but Adonis isn’t convinced. He lifts Souma as carefully as he can, laying his trembling, almost entirely limp body down, and palms Souma’s still-hard cock, stroking from base to tip.

“Adonisu-dono,” Souma says, voice shaky and wrecked, “you don’t have to--”

Adonis cuts him off with a kiss. It’s rude, but he doesn’t have any words when he’s this spent, and all his remaining stamina is focused on bringing Souma even a fraction of the pleasure he’d felt himself. 

They’re both overstimulated, and it doesn’t take long until Souma is shuddering, hot fluid coating Adonis’s hand as Souma bucks in his hold, biting his lip to keep back another scream. Then he collapses back, mindlessly nuzzling into Adonis’s chest. 

For a long moment that might be an hour, Adonis just listens to him breathe. It only takes six heartbeats, he notes, before their breath is the same, in together, out together. His own is a warrior’s breath, trained by hard labor and meditation. He doubts Souma’s is any different. 

Just for six heartbeats, Adonis can easily forget that they are anyone but two nameless, obligationless men who have decided to enjoy each others’ company. The room smells like sex and tea and tatami, winding gently through his nose. Soft damp cotton fibers press against his skin, sticking him here, just as fast as his arms are around Souma’s body, as if the entire room wants them pressed together until they’re stuck. For six heartbeats, he considers staying here, on a soiled futon in Yoshiwara, until he dies.

Then they exhale again.

“Did you pay Hasumi-dono for the whole night?” Souma asks, sounding as reluctant to break the spell as he is. “Or must I clean you and send you away?”

A customer laughs downstairs. Adonis doesn’t want to think that the nameless laughing man could be Souma’s next appointment. “I don’t know,” he admits. “My Captain made the arrangement.”

“Ah. Then I should--”

“Souma.” The words come fast sometimes, but never exactly when Adonis wants them to, only when he can’t keep them in anymore. “You don’t have to stay here. Come with us. I’ll take you to see giant sea turtles.”

If Souma had pulled away instantly, Adonis would have apologized, forehead to the ground, the way he’s seen his Captain force disobedient crew members to do. Instead, he tenses for a long moment, before exhaling deeply. “I have a contract to serve out. A samurai never abandons his word.”

The phrasing is so absolute that Adonis doesn’t question it. It seems normal, in this floating world of Souma’s embrace, that an actor-cum-prostitute in Edo’s most infamous pleasure district would abide by samurai ethics, as long as they’re stated plainly in Souma’s earnest tone.

“Very well. Then...I will visit you again. And bring you presents from far away.” It’s all he has to offer, he thinks.

Souma blinks hard, pulling away enough to wipe his face, and nods. “I would very much like to serve you again, Adonisu-dono,” he says softly, then fetches a length of cloth and a bowl of water, gently wiping Adonis’s stained torso clean. 

Adonis can’t help but look down, to where a thin trickle of white runs from the swollen red hole down Souma’s thigh, and flushes deeply. “I hope I wasn’t too rough.”

Souma gives him a smile, one that Adonis thinks is genuine, wringing out the cloth. “I am able to endure a great deal of pain, Adonisu-dono. This was not the case tonight.”

“Oh. I’m glad.”

He hasn’t been dressed by someone else since leaving his father’s halls, and never by someone who is also naked, and seems to take such care and pleasure in arranging the folds of his clothing. When he’s done, Souma takes hold of the tomoeri of his kimono, pulling him down with strong arms for a firm kiss. “In eight years,” he says, dark eyes intense, “if you return, I will go with you to see the giant turtles.”

“Then for eight years,” Adonis promises, laying a hand on Souma’s cheek, “I will bring you gifts from far away. And, um, thank you.”

Souma bows, then tugs just his own outer kimono back over his shoulders, tugging it closed without tying it. “I am telling the truth when I say it was my pleasure. I shall miss you.”

Hakaze would probably say that it’s just a line, a way to get a patron with money to keep returning. Adonis can’t believe it, mostly because he doesn’t want to. 

But he also can’t think of anything else to say or any reason to stay, so he leaves, seeking out his Captain, finding him thoroughly rumpled and looking entirely pleased with himself, lounging outside in the predawn light. “You look like you had a good time,” Sakuma says, one eyebrow raised.

“Sakuma-san, I think you have perhaps been burgled. Your coat and purse and hat are all missing.”

Sakuma waves a hand, beaming. “That’s how you know it was a good night. The puppy is already at the inn, by the way. There’s only so much of Kuro he can handle.” He takes a drag on a long, thin pipe, and Adonis sees dark mottling bruises on one side of his Captain’s pale neck. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back. There’s always another play to see.”

“Sakuma-san. How much does it cost to buy the contract of a prostitute that has eight years remaining?”

Sakuma exhales a breath of smoke, then taps out his kiseru, tucking it into his bag, and clapping Adonis on the shoulder. “Let’s talk about that later, yeah? Actually, you should ask the puppy about it, I’m sure he’d be _thrilled_ to tell you all about it.”

“Thank you, I will.”

It’s only through strength of will that Adonis only looks back once, but the curtains on Souma’s room are already drawn tight against the morning light, keeping the darkness in as every other teahouse in Yoshiwara. Adonis blinks against the light, and walks into the sunrise with his crew. 

Someday, the sun will be at his back again, and he already knows where to return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breathe in. He's back. Breathe out. He's gone.

In dreams, Souma is still safe, and protected, and still has his honor. In dreams, he’s young, and proud, and his family tells him he’ll be a powerful warrior, a great statesman. the shining jewel of their family.

In dreams, he still has a family name, one he’s proud to say aloud. 

In dreams, he’s fifteen, and his first master has a hand on his shoulder. It’s broad and warm and familiar, and so comforting that it makes tears come to his eyes. He turns, but when he looks up into his master’s eyes, they’re swirling violet, and his skin is dark, and he’s the man called Adonis, from a distant land. 

“Thank you for showing me this,” Adonis says quietly, and Souma feels himself nod, as if he’d consented to this invasion.

Wordlessly he turns, letting Adonis see his family’s home. It is nothing fancy, with none of the garish turns and embellishments of Yoshiwara pleasure houses, but the woodwork is solid and often replaced before it can begin to rot, the shoji free of tears or mending, every metal surface polished to shining by people who take pride in their work. He wants to say something, to point out the incense burning at the shrine in the corner, to show off his horse outside, to show Adonis the sword he’s so proud of, but it’s a dream, and he can neither move nor speak. His father enters, just finished with shaving around his topknot, and gives him a severe nod. 

He’d bowed low, he knows, his back straight enough that the tutor’s stick wouldn’t show any gaps. He hadn’t known that this was such an exciting day, that it would be one he’d remember forever, or that it would turn into the worst day of his life. He hadn’t known that he’d revisit it with the specter of a client he’d met once, treading through the dream with unnaturally light feet. 

His father paces over, sword in hand, and his stern expression melts into an affectionate, proud smile. “Souma. We need to talk about your Genpuku.”

“Father,” Souma whispers, the first word he’s been able to say.

“He looks strong,” Adonis says at his shoulder. 

“Souma, you’re causing trouble.”

It isn’t his father saying it, but a different voice, one that hadn’t been there that day. Souma frowns, and it comes again. 

“Souma. Souma, I don’t have all day to sit here.”

Adonis shakes his shoulder. Souma reaches for that touch. _Touch me again, just once, Adonis-dono_ \--

“Souma!”

It’s Keito’s voice, waking him out of a deep sleep, and Souma blinks in the late morning light, trying to reconcile his surroundings. Right. Yoshiwara, at the Akatsuki. He rubs at his eyes, feeling the soreness in his shoulder where Keito must have been grabbing him. 

“Finally,” Keito says, pushing up his spectacles on his nose. “You slept late. Are you feeling well? It would be very troublesome if you got sick, of course.”

“I’m quite well, Keito-dono! It’s only...” Only his clients the night before had been a group of farmers from the suburbs, and had only been able to afford his time by pooling their money, then drawing straws. All of them had been able to drink with him, but only one had the pleasure of sharing his futon. 

“I’m not your lord, Souma. We talked about this. If you keep talking like a samurai, someone is going to hear about it and come looking for you.”

Souma drops his eyes guiltily. If someone were to hear about his whereabouts, someone from his past life, things could get difficult for the Akatsuki theater indeed. “I’m sorry. Can I...” He swallows hard, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Could I have five minutes, please?”

Keito pats Souma’s cheek with cool dry fingers, then stands, handing over a little metal key on a worn rope. “Don’t take too long, or I’ll have Kuro come get you. You need to bathe.”

_So that I’ll be clean for men to soil_. The thought is an unworthy one. Dishonored he might be, but he’s still providing a service in exchange for working off his debt. It may be a dishonor, but not a disgrace, especially not if no one ever learns his family name. It isn’t even as if he dislikes the work. Far from it, if he’s honest with himself, though it makes him flush to admit it. 

Keito leaves, and Souma reaches for a thin strip of cloth, tying his hair up the way he’d once done every morning. He makes his way to the locked chest in the corner of his room, unlocking it with Keito’s key. His sword, the heirloom of his family, isn’t exactly heavy in his hand. Just for a few minutes, he stands, letting the draping cloth of an onnagata actor fall around him, finding the stillness in his heart as he breathes, eyes closed, grounding and centering his body. 

Then he moves to strike, lashing out with his sword, whipping through a complex and deadly set of exercises that ends with his katana outstretched, arm entirely steady as he breathes hard. 

There was a time when he would have practiced for hours on end, each time waiting for the painstaking, sometimes painful correction of his master, shaping him into a proper warrior. This was no vanity; his family had horses, and land, and had often been the target of raids by rival clans and less proud daimyo, or of those working for his father’s enemies. He’d ridden out on his first raid at his master’s side when he was eleven, killed his first man at thirteen, and was proud to have never disgraced his family name in battle. 

Movement stirs below in the Akatsuki. He’ll be wearing a veil tonight, he knows, playing Shizuka Gozen in one of his favorite scripts. Kuro had worked hard on the costumes, Keito on the musical arrangements. He can’t let them down.

It’s only...

Only he can still see his father’s smile in his mind.

Only he can still smell the incense from the shrine in the corner.

Only he can still feel the weight of the sword in his hand, and knows what it should be used for.

Before he really thinks it through, Souma kneels on the tatami, carefully turning the sword around so the tip of the blade is pointed at his belly, five centimeters left of center. One strike in, across, and up; that’s all it will take. Keito, he hopes, will know whether it’s better to let his family know of his end or let him simply pass. At least if they find out, they’ll know he redeemed himself in the end for being selfish and cowardly.

_And I’ll never get to see the giant sea turtles._

That thought pains him more than the tip of the blade, and he looks up at his wall. The only decoration is a drawing of a huge minogame, a little likeness of a samurai on his back. Keito had claimed to find the print somewhere in the marketplace, but his fingertips had been smudged with ink. 

The door opens before he can press in, sliding quietly to the side, and Souma hears Kuro sigh. “Put it away. He’s not going to let you hold it anymore if you keep trying to do this every time.”

Souma sighs. Kuro is right. Carefully, he sheathes his sword, setting it back in the chest, and locking it again. “I know I’m very lucky,” he says quietly. “Most proprietors wouldn’t even let me keep it close, or hold it sometimes.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Kuro reminds him. “Even samurai can’t have weapons in Yoshiwara. C’mon, kid. Tetsu stopped by and brought some nabe.”

Souma hesitates. “Ah...I don’t mind cooking for us as usual, Kuro-dono.”

“No way. If I’ve got to pretend it’s good, we’ve all got to eat it. Come on, where’s your warrior spirit now?”

The food is bad, but the energy of the meal is good. All of the sansuke from the bathhouse next door, the Falling Star, wind up coming for the meal, which gives Souma a reason to cook himself for a larger crowd. In the end, it’s only Kuro that manages to choke down some of Tetora’s nabe, with a stoically straight face that Souma can’t help but admire. “Hey, can I be an actor yet?” Tetora asks earnestly, turning shining eyes to first Kuro, then Keito, who shakes his head.

“I don’t hire so young.”

“But Souma--”

“Is older than he looks, though you shouldn’t go spreading that around.”

The boy visibly deflates, then appears to pump himself up again. “I’ll get older, though! And then, I’ll be the best kabuki actor Yoshiwara has ever seen!”

Keito takes a sip of tea, then sets down his cup. “The only opening I might have is for an onnagata.”

Tetora’s face falls, his pride obviously injured. “But--but I want to be a man among men! I want to play the great manly roles of the era, like Benkei! Like Taishou!”

“Then you can keep helping as a stage hand until you get taller.”

“All right!”

“Souma...Souma, you’re a good boy.”

The voice surprises Souma, but it usually does, coming from the sweet-faced Kanata who helps run the bathhouse. Souma bows immediately, and feels wet hands pet his hair. He never really questions why Kanata always has wet hands, even when none of the rest of the sansuke seem to have issues with drying them on towels. “Puka...puka,” Kanata says, and Souma finds himself nodding.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “Kanata-dono, please, I grilled some trout, please let me serve you.”

Kanata’s eyes twinkle, like reflections off of the sea. “Souma is a good boy,” he says with a smile, taking the bowl of fish and rice. “Tetora’s nabe is...bad.”

“Eh? Sempai, what do you mean?”

“In a taste way,” Kanata clarifies. “Heh. Ahh...Souma, this is tasty. Mm, you should eat, too. You need strength today, puka...puka...”

Souma smiles, and nods his head, picking up a bowl for himself, bowing his thanks over it. “I’ve played Shizuka Gozen many times, but it always requires a warrior’s best efforts.”

“Mm, mm, yes...” Kanata hums to himself a little, nibbling at his food.

“Tetora!” The call comes from Chiaki, the owner of the bathhouse, who had been attempting to stuff one of the younger workers into one of the silly-looking joke costumes from the back of the theater. “When you’re finished, don’t forget to run back to the bathhouse. Some of the men on those ships haven’t had a proper bath for months! Rub them down properly!”

“Yessir!”

Souma blinks. “Ships?”

“Yes!” Chiaki says, then turns and leaves without another word, smiling broadly.

“Chiaki...doesn’t explain things well,” Kanata says fondly, then trails after him, also not explaining anything well.

Keito starts cleaning up the small lacquered plates, bustling them towards the kitchen. “Keep your wits about you today, please. I know your mind has been wandering lately, but we’re going to be having important guests next week.”

Kuro’s head snaps up. “You mean...”

Souma frowns in confusion. “Important guests?”

“Our patron, kid.” 

Souma tries to remember if he’d known that Akatsuki has a patron, and fails. “My apologies, Keito-dono, Kuro-dono!” He immediately bows, and hears them sigh.

“You’ve never met him. He’s...well.” Keito adjusts his glasses, a little nervously. “I’ve only got this place because of Lord Tenshouin, so we’ll be sure to give him a good performance. Something erotic, he’ll like that. That isn’t until next week, though. Tonight, Yoshitsune and Benkei in Kyoto. Eat up now, you won’t have a chance later.”

The day passes in a whirlwind of practicing lines, flute notes, and dance. Almost before Souma notices, the sun is setting, lanterns glowing in their paper skin, and the crowd begins to filter in from the street. Some of the men are his usual audience, the merchants and third-and-fourth sons of warriors and lords that spend and gamble their lives away in Yoshiwara. Some of them have topknots, but most don’t, slicking their hair back in a more modern style. Souma can pick out three at least who have come with the intention of securing his favor that evening. They’re easy to spot, after three years at the Akatsuki. Many of the customers can be convinced to secure an evening of his affections, after the sake flows freely into the little lacquered dishes and he lets his robes slip while dancing. Only a few each night, however, come with enough coin in one hand and a gift in the other, and spend all evening staring directly at him. It’s the stares more than anything that tells Souma how serious a man is about securing his company.

One man on his left he sees when Shizuka Gozen starts to sing, lamenting her lord’s imprisonment, cursing his traitorous brother. Through the veil, Souma watches the man--his name is Habu, he thinks, and he works as a scribe in Ginza. He has a tendency to drool in his sleep and a tiny cock, but his hands are always gentle, and Souma doesn’t hate him. In one of his hands is a purse full of coin; the other clutches a paper-wrapped package that Souma would swear is a box of incense. Maybe, he thinks fondly, and lowers his eyelashes when he sweeps his gaze across the audience next. Not that he’ll have much choice; it’s up to Keito who he entertains for the evening, after all.

The next full purse belongs to Jouyuu, a man Souma thinks is a gambler by trade as well as nature. He always has a different purse, and always smells of incense from his offerings to the gods of luck. Dozens of charms from as many temples dangle from his belt, and Souma thinks his gift is a silk obi. _I’m getting more famous_ , he thinks, not sure if that makes him feel proud or just tired. Jouyuu always has awful breath and sweats too much, and it will be the fourth time Souma serves him, if Keito chooses him.

Shizuka Gozen dances a lament, and Souma’s fan lashes out. This is a good role. She’s a beloved mistress of a powerful, intelligent, courageous man, and a fierce warrior in her own right. Keito tries to choose shows that all of them will enjoy, though it can’t be easy, not when so many women’s roles are so simplistic. At least as Shizuka Gozen, he gets to wield a blade, even if it’s only a mamorigatana intended for taking his own life. Shizuka Gozen wasn’t stopped every day from committing seppuku.

_Because she knew when it was necessary_ , a voice tells him, and his resolve hardens into steel as his fan snaps out to the side. 

The third man that’s come to Akatsuki to purchase his favor is young, a stranger, and drunk. He laughs too loudly at the jokes, and has his head shaved into a warrior’s topknot that makes Souma’s insides twist with envy. He has the relaxed bearing of a young samurai, with the dark skin of someone who’s spent most of his days outside his whole life. Souma burns for that life even now, and his steps nearly falter through the complicated dance. 

Then he smells something--

\--familiar--

\--ocean breeze and date palms and sun-brown skin--

\--his heart leaps--

In the back row, standing to see over the kneeling men, stand four men dressed differently from the usual patrons, empty belts with notches and latches for weapons to hang around their waists, fitted coats buttoned securely, with all manner of jewelry dangling from their necks and wrists and ears. The tallest one is pale with black hair, hip cocked in arrogant confidence. He leans back next to an athletic young man whose hair looks frosted with salt even now, hands jammed into his pockets, shirt open enough to reveal a broad, muscular chest. The third man is tall, with light-streaked hair from the sun and an easy smile, cheeks flushed already from sake. But the last man, he stands as still as a stone temple guardian, darker than any dock worker or farmer in Souma’s father’s rice fields, with blazing violet eyes. Souma hardly dares to hope, but he looks down, and sees a coin purse in one hand, and something wrapped in paper in the other.

_You came back_ , he thinks, fire bursting in his chest, though he doesn’t know _why_ it’s different with this man, why he feels as if Adonis is a lover instead of a patron, one that _should_ return to see him whenever he pleases. He finishes his dance with a flourish, and doesn’t look at Habu or Jouyuu again, fleeing the stage at the end of his scene to seek Keito out.

“The foreigner is back,” he whispers, as stage hands change Minamoto no Yoritomo’s palace into a mountain temple. “Keito-dono, please, I want to serve Adonisu-dono tonight.”

If he isn’t mistaken, Keito’s mood lifts himself, though it’s quickly replaced by worry. “What the hell is that idiot doing here? He must not know Lord Tenshouin is in town...hmm.”

“Keito-dono, I know I’m no oiran and I cannot choose who I--”

Keito smacks him lightly on the top of the head with his closed fan. “You obviously don’t know how much his captain gave me last time,” he says, though Souma has a feeling that his reasons reach beyond the financial, in this case. “If you keep improving your price at this rate, you’ll be a tayuu before your contract is up. I’ll arrange it. Get your flute ready, the duet is coming up. And fix your makeup, you always sweat so much when you dance.”

“Sorry, Keito-dono.”

Keito’s mouth thins. “You _can_ call me Mother like the others do, you know.” Then he shakes his head, apparently at himself, and walks onstage to deliver a stern monologue as Minamoto no Yoritomo. 

The rest of the play races by, with the cheering at the end barely seeming to touch Souma’s mood. He wants to stare, to try and meet Adonis’s eyes, but Keito’s glare and his own vague sense of propriety keep him from doing so. There’s an extra burst of cheering at his bow, which startles him enough that he looks up. Fully a third of the men are trying to push to the front to get his attention, he notices, suddenly a little uneasy. _Am I truly so popular now?_

Souma has met very popular actors before. Some onnagata, some tayuu, many that he considers far more adept at the life than himself. They had always seemed to be in a floating world above, only letting their slippers touch the ground on special occasions, as if they held a thousand secrets they couldn’t allow to pass their lips. His own skills--at makeup, at acting, at playing the coy lover--have always seemed clumsy and ill-suited to himself, but perhaps he isn’t doing _everything_ wrong any longer, the way he had when he’d first sold his contract. 

“Guess the rumors’re true,” Kuro says near his shoulder, looking out at the crowd. “Some of your competition’s falling apart, kid. Get used to crowds like this.”

“Competition?”

Kuro grunts, taking a rag to his face and wiping off the thick paint. His hair spills wild and loose down to his shoulders, robes open to the waist, muscles flexing in the lamplight as he cleans himself for the evening. “The theater ‘round the corner, you know?”

“Where you get our embroidery done?”

“Yeah. Rumors say the man that runs it isn’t letting their star do private parties anymore, if you understand. Gettin’ to be a real scandal.”

Souma remembers that star, vaguely. He’d gone with Kuro to watch a show at the theater once before, when he was starting to learn the female roles. The star was flawless, though apparently mute. From what he’d gathered, that was part of his charm. His face had been stunning, his movements graceful and perfect, and Souma had heard a rumor that one man had cut off his own finger and thrown it onto the stage as a gesture of his love. The star (Souma thinks his name was Nazu-something) had apparently gone to pick the finger up, but the owner of the theater had intervened, banning the bleeding patron for life. Souma had never heard what became of the finger, which had always bothered him. 

“One guy killed himself in protest yesterday, but Icchan won’t budge. He’s gonna run himself out of business at this rate.” Kuro shakes his head, then offers another cloth to Souma, who shakes his head.

“You think I’ll really be able to enchant men the way he does?”

Kuro quirks an eyebrow. “You look at those men out there? They ain’t here to see _my_ pretty face. What’re you gonna do when one of them is rich and pays off your contract, huh? Better start thinkin’ about it.”

The thought is a sobering one. Souma isn’t a tayuu yet. Any of those men out there could ransom his contract from Keito, theoretically, and he’d have no choice but to serve it out with them in whatever fashion he sees fit, or to ransom his life at the end of his own blade. It isn’t too terrible a choice, he supposes. By many accounts and his own honor, he should have died three years ago.

“Could be one of ‘em will take you home to your family. You thought of that?”

Souma squeezes his eyes together, feeling his face powder crack at the corners. His fingers grasp his fan, as if it’s the hilt of the sword locked upstairs, which still feels vastly more at-home in his grip. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up stuff.”

“Souma.” Keito’s voice cuts through the low noise of chatter, and Souma turns, grateful for the interruption. “When you’re ready, I’ve accepted his suit. You can take your foreigner upstairs for a drink.”

Kuro’s brows shoot up. “Most kagema wouldn’t touch foreigners. You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“He has honor,” Souma says firmly, and leaves his fan tucked into his obi, bowing belatedly at the door to excuse himself, then once more when he runs back, remembering to thank Keito. “Thank you, Keito-dono! I will not let you down!”

“I certainly hope you can fuck a man without letting me down by now,” Keito says dryly, and Souma almost misses the fact that Keito is dipping perfume below his own robes, as if...

As if it’s something that’s none of his business, he supposes, so he hurries out, forgetting to keep his feet modestly together in his haste, and rounds a corner only to bump headfirst into Jouyuu, sending his lucky charms into a clamor. “Ah, my apologies, Jouyuu-dono! Here, allow me--”

He drops to his knees to try and pick up the few that landed on the ground, presenting them with a bow of his head to the gambler. Jouyuu looks amused rather than affronted, and reaches out to touch a lock of Souma’s hair, a familiar, possessive gesture. “No harm done, yes? But I can think of ways for you to apologize, my sweet--let me drink sake from your lips tonight.”

After three years, Souma has trained himself not to flinch away, but it’s a near miss, and his smile feels forced. “Please return another night, Jouyuu-dono, for I am already promised to another until sunrise.”

A chorus of protests goes up at the words, and Souma is startled to see more unfamiliar faces than he’d thought. Perhaps Kuro is right, and their rival really has gone mad in business. Souma is certain that between Keito’s script-writing and Kuro’s costume-making, the only thing holding the Akatsuki back from being one of the greatest names in Edo is his own poor skill; perhaps, if he can truly fulfill his promise, he’ll be worthy of the trust they’ve placed in him.

So he doesn’t let his eyes flash when some drunk ronin lays a hand too low on his back, but lowers his eyelids and bows, excusing himself with all the grace he can muster, making his way to the four tall men lounging at the back of the room. 

“This is the one you’ve been running your mouth about nonstop, Dodonis-kun?” the one with the light-colored hair teases, looking him over and poking Adonis in the side. Souma immediately decides that he does not like this man one bit, and that his haircut is bad. “I mean, I know he’s a man, so he’s definitely not as attractive to me as a woman would be. You should let me take you a few streets over, they’ve got this girl with huge--”

“No one wants to hear about tits in a place like this,” the shortest one growls, seeming to slink back against their captain. “Look around and read the damn atmosphere, you girl-crazy freak!”

“Ehh, just because I’m not a woman-hater like you?”

“Shut your mouth! You wanna fight?”

“Ha ha, I hit a nerve? Are you really a woman-hater? I thought you just had no luck with girls, so you pretended not to like--”

“Hya!”

Souma flinches instinctively at that sound, but the stranger obviously doesn’t know what’s coming. He hadn’t seen Kanata from next door come up behind him, or the swiftness of that all-too-accurate stiff-handed strike he favors, bringing the taller man almost to his knees. “Ow! Aw, man, what the--oh.” 

His expression changes, softening into an eager smile immediately, turning to focus all his attention on the sansuke. “Hey, the pretty lady from the bathhouse.”

“He is no such thing!” Souma says, scandalized, even raising his voice a little despite Keito’s warning glare. “Kanata-dono is a fine upstanding man, and someone like you--”

Kanata tilts his head, then grabs Souma’s hair, smiling gently. “You’re causing a scene. Do you want me to drown you a little?”

Souma’s jaw snaps shut. “Sorry, Kanata-dono.” 

Kanata releases his hair, then reaches over and pets the other man’s face, leaving behind a trail of moisture. “You maybe need another bath.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Like the last one?”

Kanata nods, not breaking eye contact.

“I...” The man opens and closes his mouth a few times, before awkwardly offering, “All right, if it’s you?”

It seems to be the right choice. Kanata takes his hand (Souma knows from experience how moist that can be), and the two of them disappear through the shoji. 

“Are you unhappy?”

The deep voice startles Souma, and he forces himself to relax, smiling up at Adonis in a way that feels less forced than it usually does. He nearly answers bluntly, telling the man that Kanata is a good kind man and doesn’t deserve to be around someone so inconsistent, but remembers his status and the limitations of their relationship at the last moment. So he bows, hands clasped in front of him as if he’s still Shizuka Gozen, lowering his head. “How could I be unhappy when my lord Adonisu-dono is nearby?”

It’s hard to tell what Adonis is thinking. Souma finds that frustrating, a little, but also...not unappealing. The man nods now, and Souma takes his hand, feeling his skin prickle at the warm strength there, at how easy it is to feel himself held, possessed, just by that one touch. 

His room has been prepared, likely by one of the apprentice boys Keito keeps on hand for menial tasks. In addition to the tea, there are also jars and dishes for sake, as well as some cold radishes and sour plums. Souma kneels, bowing his head as he looks up, smiling at Adonis despite himself. “May I serve?”

Adonis kneels, bowing over the dish as if not entirely used to the motion. “If there’s something I need to do to make this a proper ceremony, please tell me.”

Souma’s mouth twitches. _I can’t play both sides of the script_ , he wants to say, but bites his tongue. 

“I wanted to bring you meat,” Adonis says, pulling out the paper-wrapped package. “You’re small. It would be better if you could protect yourself, so you should eat meat and grow large. But Sakuma-san said that you would find red meat distressing, so.”

“Red meat? Like horse? I’m not starving, Adonisu-dono.”

“In my birth country, we eat many animals, not just fish,” Adonis explains, and pushes over the package. “But this was also...something that made me think of you.”

The package is small, barely longer than Souma’s hand, but heavy. He lets the paper fall away, revealing an elegantly wrought metal kanzashi for his hair, inlaid with a carved turtle with tiny jewels for eyes. Tears spring to his own eyes, and he blinks furiously, trying not to ruin his makeup, knowing he is failing immediately. “It’s very beautiful. Thank you. I’ll wear it.”

Before he can move, Adonis’s hand comes down to rest over his, squeezing gently, dark against pale, warm to the touch. “It’s more than a decoration,” Adonis says, seeming somewhat urgent. “Just like you are.”

His thumb turns, nail catching just under the turtle’s tail. The turtle slides back, revealing a slender blade concealed in the hairpiece, sharp and elegant. Souma’s breath catches. “If this were any other theater, I’d be beaten in the street for wearing that,” he whispers, eyes alight.

Adonis waits for Souma to stop him. When he doesn’t, he moves, fixing the kanzashi in Souma’s tied hair with a careful, delicate touch. “I don’t have the kind of money to purchase your contract yet,” he says softly. “So I cannot always keep you safe with my hands. But for someone like you with a warrior’s soul to be unable to defend himself is not right.”

Souma stares through his watering eyes for a moment, taking in the gentleness in those striking eyes, the tenderness in his hands, the absolute conviction in those words. In the next second, he moves as quickly as he’d ever done with a kanata in his hand, and then he’s in Adonis’s arms, and they’re hard and strong around him, and all the cloth between them means as little as society.

Adonis touches him like he’s glass, but looks at him like he’s the moon.

Adonis is achingly warm, but his touch doesn’t burn.

Adonis is hard and huge in him, and if it were anyone else it would be too much. Souma still craves more.

Adonis is quiet when he moves, but it doesn’t mean his actions are unclear. 

Sweat drips. Chests heave. Metal flashes in Souma’s hair, in Adonis’s ear, glinting in the lantern’s flickering light. Music filters up from the theater, but their world floats far above any pleasure district, above the clouds themselves. Adonis has him on his knees like a proper kagema, on his back like a lady, rising above him like a god, always enveloped in his powerful arms. Souma doesn’t remember whether Adonis is his for the night or just for a moment, so he takes his time, greedy, ignoring every sound that could be a knock until it goes away, singing and serving tea and offering kisses until Adonis forgets. 

Dawn breaks, with Adonis tracing gentle patterns on Souma’s upper back with one fingertip. They’re both half-asleep, yet determined not to slumber, not wanting to wastea moment. A cock crows, and Souma whispers, finally, breaking the spell.

“Will you stay nearby?”

After a long moment, Adonis shakes his head. “We’re in port for a week, but after that, no. If I want to earn enough to buy your contract, I have to leave again.”

“Adonisu-dono...you don’t have to do that.” Souma sits up, blinking heavy lidded eyes in the wan light. “I don’t hate my life. Seeing you sometimes would be wonderful.”

Adonis is silent for a long moment. Then he looks up at the ceiling and says, very quietly, “My shipmates told me that it is the greatest art of a courtesan to make a man believe love is on both sides. They said that you would welcome me and make love to me but never go with me even if I raised the money. Is it true?”

For a moment, Souma’s injured pride almost makes him challenge those shipmates to a duel, demanding the key to his katana from Keito. _You have no honor, fool_ , he thinks at himself sternly, though the words still sting. “Those words are false,” he says, voice quivering with heat, as much as he’d been able to muster earlier. “The day you hold my contract is the day I leave at your side, Adonisu-dono. I only wish that you wouldn’t spent your youth and manhood in trying to, to do something that is so difficult when you could be enjoying me.”

“But--”

Souma grabs his hands, urgent. “Life is uncertain. Ships sink. I will not be beautiful for very long. I very much want Adonisu-dono to enjoy me while I am!”

A weary scratch sounds on the door’s paper frames. “Souma,” Keito’s sleepy voice says, “you’re yelling, and it’s _early_. Send the man on his way.”

“But Keito-dono, we’re in the middle of an important conversation--”

“I should have kicked him out hours ago, I’m being nice. Don’t make me wake Kuro.”

Souma isn’t nearly as sensual about dressing Adonis this time, but he does his duty, the lantern glinting off the kanzashi. “Think about what I said,” he urges, squeezing Adonis’s hand. “Any time you return, I will throw everything aside to be by your side.”

“I can hear you,” Keito says wearily through the door. “Please don’t make promises like that, Souma. You’ll only blame me when you can’t keep them.”

“But Keito-dono--”

Adonis cuts him off with a long kiss, sealing their lips together until Souma’s protests die down, subsumed under the lingering warmth that Adonis’s touch always kindles in his belly. When he pulls back, he bows, and squeezes Souma’s hand. “Until next time,” he promises, as if he wants to say more.

Souma can’t think of any of his beautiful words, anything that Keito has taught him to say to make a man remember him on lonely nights, and only blurts out, “I’ll dream of you, Adonisu-dono.”

Adonis pauses, then nods, sliding the door open and bowing to Keito as he leaves. Souma clings to the door frame, feeling more worn out than their athleticism can account for, an aching longing suffusing him--not just to be at Adonis’s side, but to sail away, to fight and explore and wander, _and_ be at Adonis’s side.

“You’ll be an outlaw,” Keito says softly.

Souma’s head whips around, but Keito is staring after Adonis too, eyes unreadable behind his spectacles. “They are, you know. They aren’t licensed merchants or traders. Every time they put into port, they don’t know whether they’ll be welcomed with money or with blades.”

“Hasumi-dono, I...I don’t have any intention of breaking my contract--”

“You think I’d send the police after you?” Keito blinks a few times, as if there’s something in his eyes. “I couldn’t do anything to protect you if you went with them, you know. If you were taken with them, you could use your family’s influence to escape justice, but...”

_But they’d find me. He’d find me._

Souma swallows, and holds out his hand. “May I have the key, Hasumi-dono?”

“Not right now.”

“But--”

“Not until I’m sure you aren’t going to commit seppuku. Go downstairs and make breakfast.”

“If Adonisu-dono is still here, may I--”

“He won’t be. They’re leaving this morning.” Keito shifts, and his spectacles glint with something unknowable. “I told Sakuma to leave. He doesn’t need to be here when our Patron arrives. It would only cause trouble.”

Souma’s heart burns with the unfairness of it, but he swallows that. A samurai doesn’t complain about such things. Unable to force any pleasant words, he moves downstairs, only half his mind on breakfast, most of it preparing to sail the open seas.

Leaving, breaking his contract, is a rebellious thought, not worthy of a samurai. 

Souma has until Adonis returns to decide what’s most important to him, he supposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, if it weren't for so many wonderful comments this wouldn't have been more than one chapter orz thank you all so much, I'm glad you enjoy the boys!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By nature, a kagema does not take only one client.

Night falls early in the depth of winter, approaching the year’s end. It isn’t yet cold enough for snow, but the rain feels colder still, gushing through the stone-paved streets, more effective than a “closed” sign for keeping out customers. Yoshiwara is still lit up on the coldest evenings, brightly-colored lanterns visible inside open windows, rather than bobbing in the open air. Fat drops of freezing water wake even the drunkest patrons sleeping a night off on the street, sending them to empty their purses for lodging. 

And a lovely young man, wearing simple robes, hair tied up in a plain tail, walks through the streets without seeming to notice the weather. He strides with purpose, takageta keeping him above the worst of the puddles, eyes fixed on one theater in particular.

And, well, Kaoru can’t really help himself when he sees an expression that serious.

His hand moves, catching the boy’s kimono by the shoulder. “Hey, not so fast, you--”

Much to his surprise, the boy’s face darkens suddenly into a killing rage, and he snarls, leaping at Kaoru with all the obvious intent of ending his life. Sheer luck and a careful duck allow him to escape, and he laughs outright, bobbing up again and blocking the kid’s next swing. “Whoa, whoa, easy! It’s me, I’m that guy’s friend, you know?”

The young man called Souma pauses, but he’s still tensed, his arm still hovering around his empty obi as though there’s a sword to draw there. His eyes are suspicious, flicking over Kaoru’s appearance and apparently finding it lacking. Rude. 

“I know who you are,” he says, eyes narrow. “What you are doing now is the height of dishonor. You should die for it!”

If not for the muffling of the heavy rain, the words would likely be long enough to bring someone running from a surrounding building to break up the fight. As it is, men only appear in the street to hurry from doorway to doorway, covering their heads with straw hats and capes. Few have the lacquered, oiled wagasa like in Kaoru’s hand, with the innovative new technology that lets him fold it up when he gets out of the rain. Most importantly, it protects the smoke in his kiseru, currently dangling from his fingers. “You mean smoking?” he asks, amused. “Or hanging out in Yoshiwara? Which, yeah, I guess it’s not the _most_ honorable place I could be, but I don’t really wanna hear that from a kagema, you know?”

He nearly regrets his words when something like shame burns in the kid’s eyes. Long hair swishes to the side as Souma shakes his head. “Not that. Playing dress-up like this--you’re no samurai lord, you’re just a pirate!”

At that, Kaoru grimaces. “Even pirates have to visit family sometimes,” he mutters, wanting to tug the telltale knot from the top of his head. Thinking about his father right now is no good, and he searches for something to change the subject, and lights on teasing this kid. “You really look different out of your girl clothes. Heh, shouldn’t you be nicer to a samurai like me?”

Souma’s hand twitches. Kaoru is absolutely sure, looking into those dark eyes, that if the boy had a sword, he’d be struggling for his life right now. “Only the fact that you are Adonisu-dono’s shipmate is saving your life right now,” he spits, sounding way more like one of Kaoru’s father’s retainers than a pretty prostitute. What a weird kid. 

“Why should you care?” Kaoru asks, amused more than anything. “I don’t take kagema to bed if there’s even a pretty sancha running around, heh. Are you just scared of--”

“I’m not scared of you! I just don’t want you filling Adonisu-dono’s head with lies about me!”

That sinks in slowly, and Kaoru’s eyes lid to slits. He takes a long drag of his kiseru, blowing the smoke in Souma’s face, and the kid doesn’t even flinch. “You mad I outed your tricks, kid? Told him that most people who sell love are only in it for the coin?”

From the looks of the murder in Souma’s eyes, he’s hit a nerve, and guessed right. But instead of pressing that advantage, he changes tactics. “Or maybe you’re just nervous I’ll tell him something else, huh? That guy, he’s not from around here, you know.”

Rain falls heavier, fat drops hitting Souma’s face, sticking in the tail of his hair, coursing down his shoulders and chest. He crosses his arms, long lashes wet (Kaoru had thought them the result of cosmetics in the theater, but they’re really incredibly long by nature, he notices). “I don’t care. He has more honor than a playboy samurai like you, who betrays all the principles of bushidou!”

“Better than one that thinks nanshoku will get him everywhere.”

He hadn’t meant it. Hell, he hadn’t even been _sure_ of his suspicion before saying it, but the way Souma’s face whitens is enough to confirm his guess. “Ahh...I was right, huh? So, are you from some no-name samurai family, or are you that Kanz--”

The kid drops to the street, his knees hitting the uneven stone so hard Kaoru can hear the impact even over the driving rain. The takageta fly from his feet, landing in the middle of the street with a clatter of wood against stone. Souma’s forehead presses to the ground, and Kaoru can see him shake, when the cold hadn’t seemed to affect him just a second ago. “Please,” the boy says, grabbing the hem of Kaoru’s kimono in an iron-tight grip, then immediately moving his head back to the ground. “Please, I’ll--make any request of me, or lend me your sword to commit seppuku, please--please don’t tell him, don’t tell my family!”

Guilt is an ugly thing. It presses gently on Kaoru’s emotions whenever he just wants to have a good time. It nags at him when he’s laughing and gaming and sailing with his friends, and knows he should be at home training his father’s warriors. It nags at him when he makes a joke, and sees a flash of hurt on someone’s eyes. It positively thunders in him now, and he squats, moving his arm to cover Souma with the wagasa as well, protecting most of him from the rain. “It must be real tiring to be you, I think. Calm down, I don’t need to tell anything to anyone. I was just playing around with you.”

“On your honor,” Souma whispers, head still facing down.

“I thought my honor wasn’t worth anything.”

“To me. It might be worth something to you.”

Kaoru winces. “You’re brutal, you know? Eh, honor isn’t really something I’ll swear by. Tell you what. Serve me some tea at the Akatsuki, we’ll both get dry, and I’ll figure out something to swear on.”

Slowly, Souma makes his way back up to kneeling, water dripping from his nose. He’s unfairly lovely, Kaoru notices again, with an odd little warmth that he almost never feels around men. Dark tendrils of hair stick to Souma’s face, and he nods. “Very well. I’ll go first and get permission to entertain a client who isn’t paying.”

At that, Kaoru grimaces. “Don’t do that, they’ll add time to your contract. Here, I can pay.”

He reaches into his purse and pulls out a few Bu, handing them over. Souma takes the coins, frowning slightly, then nods. He gets carefully to his feet, brushing the hair out of his face, and turns, picking up his takageta from the street. A moment later, he breaks into a run, still barefoot, until he disappears into the Akatsuki.

Only then does Kaoru realize he’s just paid to enjoy the company of a man for the night. Not only that, he’s fairly sure that if Adonis ever hears about this, he’ll find himself thrown off the _Undead_ in the middle of the next storm they sail through. No, that’s not fair, Adonis is a weirdly gentle guy, but Kaoru is still pretty sure his feelings would be hurt.

Oh, well. Might as well collect what he’s already paid for.

 

Kaoru has been to teahouses on the off-times before, though it’s usually because he’d overstayed his allotted time, staying to tease the girls long past when most of the men have been kicked out. A theater during the off-hours is decidedly weirder, he thinks, looking around at the buzz of activity, men bustling around cleaning, preparing, and rehearsing. Kaoru taps one of them on the shoulder, who bows immediately, turning to face him. “Yes, lord?”

_Damn, should have taken off these clothes,_ Kaoru thinks with a grimace. He hates it when people see him as just another stuck-up samurai, someone who doesn’t mind using his status to lord it over others. “I’m here to see your onnagata,” he says breezily. “Not because he’s a man, or anything. I do just fine with the girls. I just have something to talk to him about.”

The young man gives him an odd look, then runs off. A moment later, a large guy with red hair appears, someone Kaoru has definitely seen before, but the name eludes him, given that he’d never have sex with this guy. Muscles, no thanks. “You the samurai that’s been scaring our star?” the guy rumbles.

Kaoru holds up his hands, placating. “We’re just talking. Not sex. I don’t want to do something like that with a guy.”

“You’re in a weird theater, then.” The man folds beefy arms over his chest, and Kaoru knows the look of a bouncer who’s about to kick him out.

“Wait.” That’s from a slender man (honestly, where are the women?) wearing spectacles, walking over in a longer kimono with the sleeves untied, who bows to Kaoru. “You’re with Sakuma’s crew, aren’t you? You overpaid, I only charge three Shu for Souma, he’s still going through quite a bit of training.”

Kaoru waves a hand. “Put it toward his contract, then. Hey, how much is left on it?” He sees an eyebrow raise, and says hastily, “Not for me, I don’t want to buy him or anything. I wouldn’t buy a man. I’m asking for a friend.”

“Tell your friend I won’t sell.”

Kaoru blinks. “What, at all?”

The man shakes his head, adjusting his glasses. “That’s none of your concern. Just know that I won’t sell him to you, or to your friend, or to anyone else who would lead him into a life of uncertainty.”

“Heh...so you really are like his mother, huh? That’s kind of cute. Anyway, we’re just going to talk. Which room?”

Wordlessly, the man leads him up the stairs, then bows to him again, opening a shoji to let him inside, shutting it after him.

In the lantern’s glow, with his hair loose down his back, makeup quickly, though skillfully applied, Souma looks a hell of a lot like a girl, actually. He turns, dragging a comb through his hair, and sets it to the side to bow low. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Samurai-dono.”

“Kaoru.”

“Kaoru-dono.”

Kaoru slips off his leather zouri, then moves inside to kneel in front of Souma. “I thought we were going to talk. I’m not your lord. And you’re not a samurai, right?”

The flash of hurt in the kid’s eyes makes him groan. “I meant, I’m not gonna bring it up, I’m trying to do what you asked. Gods, you must have really been one of those guys that cares about the whole thing, huh?”

The look Souma gives him is part incredulous, part offended, part shocked. “The whole thing? You mean honor? And family, and loyalty, and--”

“Yeah, that whole scam.” Kaoru swipes a dish of sake on the table, clearly prepared for him, and downs it. “It’s just a way for your parents to keep you obedient until you do everything they want. Every samurai you’ve ever looked up to? In private, they break all those rules you care about so much. Honestly, you’re not missing anything.” It’s intended to be comforting--obviously, this kid is never going to become a samurai--but Souma only looks defiant. 

“That’s not true. My master wasn’t like that, or my father. I--I’m sorry. Please forget you heard that. I have no family.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Kaoru asks, curious now. “I have to admit, I’ve always kinda wanted to know what happened. It was a pretty famous disappearance, you know? One minute, this kid’s poised to become the next daimyo, got the favor of everyone up to the shogun, working his way up from a 15,000-koku family all through nanshoku, and the next...”

He expects Souma to cut him off, but he doesn’t, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. “What...do they say about me?” Souma asks, voice very soft. “Back in Shiga.”

Kaoru reaches out against his better judgment, touching a long strand of inky dark hair. “That doesn’t matter, right? Hey, what kind of place is this, I paid a lot to have you sing and stuff.”

If he isn’t mistaking it, Souma’s tension eases a little. He stands, and picks up a small drum, starting to thump out a cheerful rhythm. Soon, he starts to dance, and Kaoru sits back, sipping sake, thinking that perhaps he should have paid more attention to the guys the last time he’d been to this theater. Adonis had talked about this kid for weeks, which is incredibly annoying, but for the first time, Kaoru can sort of understand why. The long straight lines of his body belie the floating pleasure-world he pretends to be a part of. There’s that nagging sense of guilt again, letting him know that he’s got something someone else would make better use of. What good is his status to him? All he wants to do is escape it, run away and let someone else be the next retainer to his big brother on their family lands. He likes his life as a pirate, sailing and laughing and seeing new places. Meeting someone like this, who would clearly die for the chance to be a samurai, is sort of uncomfortable. _Wish I could trade places with you, kid_ , he thinks, watching sweat bead on Souma’s neck. 

Maybe it’s the sake. Maybe it’s the residual tension left over from earlier, when he’d left his father’s home in Edo frustrated, heading to Yoshiwara to bury his worries in some teahouse girl’s breasts and found this too-serious boy instead. Maybe it’s just curiosity, kept afloat in his mind by fine rice wine. 

Whatever the reason, he moves the next time Souma dances by, grabbing the boy by the wrist and tugging him down into his lap. Souma lets out a very pleasant little squeak, and that’s all Kaoru needs to satisfy himself that he can pretend this is a girl. “You’re pretty,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to that long pale neck.

Souma goes still in his lap, and Kaoru presses his advantage, hand dipping down to the strings of Souma’s obi, tied in the front for easy access. “Even if you’re a man...you still feel like this in my arms. It’s nice, right? Ahh, you smell like a girl...”

There’s a moment of extra tension in the young man’s shoulders. For a moment, Kaoru thinks he’s going to be shoved away.

Then the tension leaves. It doesn’t just fade, it vanishes in a rush, and Souma shifts in his lap, spine arching as he lets his head fall back. In that moment, Kaoru can see at least part of what’s sparking the guilt behind those lovely, dark eyes. Souma, he’s very certain, enjoys this lifestyle. Whatever shame might have brought him to Yoshiwara, it isn’t an accident that he’d ended up selling his contract in a theater like this, not when he moves so sinuously on Kaoru’s lap. 

Long dark lashes flutter, and Souma looks back at him, eyes unreadable, but cheeks flushed. “I’m well used to playing a woman’s role...”

“Kaoru.”

“Kaoru-dono. Let me show you. You paid for this, after all.”

He had, hadn’t he? What had compelled him to do that? 

Kaoru grabs another dish of sake, emptying it into his mouth before he grabs Souma around the waist, nipping at the soft skin of his neck. “And you took that coin,” he teases, low and hungry as each wiggle rouses a fire in his belly. “So show me what it’s worth.”

Freed from the obi, Souma’s kimono slips off one shoulder, baring pale skin. The illusion is so good that Kaoru half-expects to see the curve of a breast exposed, and his cock takes interest, though it doesn’t flag when no soft fullness appears. Instead, there’s lean muscle. And, well, if Souma doesn’t have the pretty shape of a girl, at least he’s as thin as one, and that makes it easier to pretend. 

It barely takes an urging motion before Souma moves, rolling onto his elbows and knees, one of each on the futon, one on the tatami mat. A shiver runs up the boy’s spine, and Kaoru watches his chest heave in a way that he thinks has little to do with dancing. His own hands dart to expose those lean, creamy thighs, rucking up the painted kimono and red under kimono, the very sight of the color accelerating his heart rate. “You know...how desirable you are to men, don’t you?”

Souma buries his head in his forearms, hiding his expression. It’s awfully sweet, and Kaoru rewards him by pinching his ass, drawing a squeak. “Thought so. You’re getting popular, huh? Pretty soon, you’ll be reserved for the kinds of lords that can pay a Ryo for every night of your company.”

One long finger seeks out that pretty hole, and for a moment, the illusion is good. Souma had clearly prepared himself when he’d dashed upstairs, and not only with facepaint. “Ahh, what a pretty girl, you’ve got such a nice cunt, and already wet for me,” Kaoru teases, and gets a foot driven into his stomach for his troubles. “Ow! It’s a joke, it’s a--”

“My apologies, Kaoru-dono,” Souma says quietly, sounding like it’s costing him something. “My foot slipped.”

Kaoru highly doubts that it was an accident, but perhaps he’d gone too far. “You’re really strong,” he complains, and puts a hand on Souma’s back, urging his chest down to touch the futon. “But you’re also like this, so that’s fun.” 

“Kaoru-dono, I--aahhh--oohhh--”

The tight heat of Souma’s little hole is enough to make Kaoru grunt, but the breathless, squirming moans the kid lets out almost do him in. He has to pause, taking a breath to calm his sake-soaked nerves as he thrusts in, feeling Souma tense and shiver around his cock. 

Of the women Kaoru’s been with, and there have been enough to make a formal study of such things, he thinks he’s gotten fairly good at telling when a woman is enjoying herself in truth, and when she’s enjoying the money in her hand. Just now, he’d bet his father’s entire inheritance on Souma being one of the former, and gods help him, he can’t stop himself from teasing. “So it’s not just big foreigners that get you all flustered, huh? Even a proper Japanese guy like me can do it?”

Souma lets out a noise, a noncommittal, whimpering grunt that sounds so primal that Kaoru thrusts in deeper than he’d intended, his thighs slapping against Souma’s, drawing more little squeals and squeaks with every rut of his hips. Only the threat of being called _unmanly_ by this stuck-up little brat keeps him from coming too fast. 

“Ahh, that’s what I thought--Souma-kyun, you really love having someone in you like this, don’t you?” Kaoru presses a kiss to Souma’s ear, then moves his hands, threading one through that thick dark hair, gripping the boy’s thin hips with the other. It’s an effective rein-harness combination, and the way Souma’s back arches, the way he cries out and shudders, shows that he’s not the only one who likes it. 

“You know, I’ve been with--a lot of girls--in Yoshiwara,” he breathes, losing all his inhibitions now, gripping tight on that silky hair, yanking Souma back into every thrust. “And....shit, I lost my train of thought. But I--have definitely--been with--a lot of--girls--”

“Be _silent_ ,” Souma groans, cheek pressing against the futon. “If I had my sword--”

For some reason, that last show of defiance saps Kaoru’s remaining resolve. He bucks in hard, the slapping sound only driving him on more, yanking back on Souma’s hair as he spills deep inside, not a single drop escaping the tight squeeze of Souma’s body. Dimly, through the roar in his own ears, he hears Souma cry out, finding his own release. 

_That’s the one thing that’s nicer with men_ , Kaoru thinks dazedly, finally releasing Souma’s hair, petting it at the roots. _You never have to guess if they came or not._

Rain pounds outside. The sound against the roof is melodic, gentle, belying the intensity of the storm. It’s still there, still waiting to swallow him the moment he steps outside, but for the moment, everything is peaceful.

He pulls out gently, and Souma moves away, grabbing for a clean cloth folded by the side of his futon. He presses it between his legs, then hesitates. “Unless...” His cheeks flush so deeply it looks painful, eyes lowered. “Unless Kaoru-dono wants to watch his mess.”

The line sounds so painfully rehearsed that it kills any desire Kaoru might have for such a thing, and he shakes his head, looking away. “Clean yourself up. You seem like the kind of person that doesn’t like being messy, right?”

Souma’s lashes are low as he cleans himself, dipping the cloth into a bowl of water, wringing it out, then cleaning himself again before moving on to start wiping Kaoru down. “I hope my body was to your liking,” he says quietly.

Kaoru reaches over and tugs on a strand of hair. “Your body’s fine, for a man,” he says noncommittally. “Honestly, I don’t know why that guy thinks you’re so much better than anyone else.”

The flash of anger on Souma’s face is still funny. “Do not tell Adonisu-dono about this,” he warns. 

“Why not? It’s not like he doesn’t know what you do for a living. Honesty’s the best policy between husband and wife, you know,” Kaoru says, stretching out along the futon. The sake still burns in his belly, making everything pleasantly fuzzy. 

“Get up. You didn’t pay for the whole night.”

“Wro~ong, your proprietor told me your usual price. You think he’ll be happy if you kick out such a high-paying customer? Come here, be cute, lie with me.”

Souma huffs, eyes darting to what looks like a locked chest in the corner of the room. They linger there for a long moment before he finally turns, snuggling down into the futon, letting Kaoru grab at him. “I still think you’re a disgrace.”

“And I still think you can work on your pillow talk,” Kaoru says, amused. “Would you talk like that to another samurai who came in here looking for a good time?”

“No. Not one that wasn’t dishonorable like you.”

Kaoru sighs, and puts his hand over the kid’s mouth, full lips pressing against his fingers. “That’s enough talking. Go to sleep. Or at least pretend so I can sleep off this drink.”

Souma grumbles behind his hand, but settles, and soon enough, his breathing relaxes into the easy rhythm of sleep.

 

The next morning, Kaoru slips out before daylight, head pounding gently, dressing himself by the lantern’s glow, careful not to wake Souma. He’s graceless when he sleeps, Kaoru notes with amusement, kicking back and forth and sprawled very inelegantly on his stomach. Quietly, he slides the shoji back, letting himself out. As expected, most of the activity downstairs is gone, though the spectacled man and the big one are drinking in front of the brazier, both in casual kimono dress rather than costumes. 

“You really won’t sell his contract? Why? I can pay.”

The man with spectacles takes a long sip of tea, staring into the fire. “You’re a friend of Sakuma, so I’ll tell you honestly. That boy has no talent for dishonest work. For now, he’s protected as an apprentice. When his contract is over, he’ll be a trained actor, good enough to work, managing this theater after I retire, or even a professional theater outside of Yoshiwara’s walls.”

Kaoru folds his arms. “So you’ve only got his best interests at heart? What about what he wants? Or maybe you only want the money that a face that pretty brings in, huh?” It’s no secret that most prostitutes never save up enough credit to buy their contracts, with the proprietors charging fees for lodging, training, clothing, makeup, and tacking on many other fees for made-up ‘infractions.’ Kaoru himself has ransomed a few girls out of their contracts, when they’d begged and pleaded and told him stories of bad masters, even knowing deep down that they were probably just trying to get his purse. 

“He wants,” the man says dryly, “to ride on the back of giant sea turtles and tell them of the way of the samurai. Don’t try to tempt him with a life that doesn’t exist. I have a responsibility to him.”

Kaoru’s eyes narrow. “You’re that friend my captain talked about, aren’t you? The one who used to be a priest?”

Light glints off the man’s spectacles, rendering his eyes unreadable. “That was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Kaoru wants to say something else, but gods, what would he do if the boy were freed, and decided to follow him, or Adonis, the next time they set sail? Sure, the kid looks like he can take care of himself, but he’s so full of silly ideas, so straightforward...

With a shrug, Kaoru gives a bow, so shallow in angle that it must be mockery, and leaves the Akatsuki, its residents, and all their secrets from each other behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New vocab for this chapter! (Sorry for the long wait!)
> 
> takageta: wooden shoes with high, thin soles designed to keep splashing to a minimum. About 6 inch of height.  
> wagasa: paper and bamboo umbrella, covered in laquor and oil to make it waterproof.  
> sancha: teahouse waitress. During the government crackdown on non-Yoshiwara prostitutes in the 1600s, hundreds of women working as yuna, or ‘bathhouse attendants’ outside of Yoshiwara, were forced either to move inside the walls and serve as sancha or find more legal careers.  
> bushidou: a samurai’s code of ethics and honor. It was only fully defined and delineated in the 1800s, but the word usage goes back several hundred years…I know it’s not strictly right for Souma to refer to it as a code to follow, but if anyone would give extra credence to a loosely-defined code of ethics, I think we can all agree it’s Souma.  
> nanshoku: the practice of an older man taking a teenage boy under his wing in the samurai tradition, also involving a sexual relationship between the two, common during Sengoku and Edo periods.  
> Bu, Shu: coins. One Bu is worth 16 Shu.   
> Koku: An amount of rice production. Families that owned more than 10,000 were considered daimyo. Essentially, Souma’s family is among the wealthiest class, but the lowest version of it. Assume that Kaoru’s family owns about 10 times as many, and Eichi’s family would own somewhere around 500,000 koku (anyone over a million is essentially on par with the shogun in terms of land power).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A priest, a blacksmith, and a runaway apprentice walk into a theater.

_ 4 years earlier _

 

“Can you hear me?”

Pain flares in Keito’s body. 

“Otera-san. Otera-san, do you hear my voice?”

“Hit ‘im.”

“I’m not going to hit him, puppy.”

“ _I’ll_ hit ‘im then--ow!”

“He’s a priest, don’t hit him at all. I’m sure he’ll come around in time.”

“He don’t look that burned up. You sure he ain’t dead?”

Something shifts near Keito. He tries to open his eyes, but the world still swims, and it’s all he can do to cling to reality.

“He’s breathing, I felt it on my hand. Here, lift him, we’ll take him to the Inn.”

“...c’wn...”

Keito tries to talk, but it comes out garbled and painful. That pain is the stimulus he needs, and he manages to pry his eyes open, blinking in the gloom of the evening. The sun has long since set, and the rocks digging into his back make him think he’s lying on the roadside somewhere. But where? And why? And-- “The temple?”

Two faces swim into his view. One is pale, devastatingly handsome, about his own age, with high cheekbones and a sly smile that’s nowhere to be seen right now. _Sakuma_. The word floats to the top of his mind, along with other images--Keito finding the two men sleeping outside the temple gates and inviting them in, sheltering them in his own room, the stories they’d told him of the traveling life, the pleasures they’d shared. The other face is younger, the lines not as delicate, the eyes genuine and jaw firm. _Oogami,_ his mind supplies, along with the rest of the memories, except--

“Burned.”

Sakuma looks sharply at his companion, who shrugs. “Lyin’ ain’t gonna bring those monks back. You got hit on the head when the fighting started, Otera-san.”

“Fighting?” Keito sits up, nearly passes out, and feels strong arms catch him, hauling him up to lean back against a tree. “Who...”

Sakuma shrugs. “Looked like a raid. Those happen a lot around here? About three dozen men, they looted the shrines and torched the place.”

“The other monks?”

The two men trade a look. That tells Keito all he needs to know, and his heart sinks. His lips move in a prayer, though it’s too late, far too late to be of any use, if it ever could have helped. 

Belatedly, he notices that Sakuma’s sword, which he’d thought of as an affectation or afterthought, is on his hip, bearing red smears along the blade. “Did you...fight?”

The man shrugs. “There were raiders between us and you. Seemed like bad form to take advantage of your hospitality and then let you die.”

“My--ah, I should be worrying about the shrine’s treasures, but I don’t suppose, my drawings...no, of course not.” Another pang, which tells him what a fool he is, and how terrible a priest he’d been. What kind of a devotee to Buddha could worry about a possession, could claim obedience and enlightenment when he is so attached to the fruits of his own labor?

“We won’t leave ya in the cold,” the younger man grumbles. “When you can walk. We’ll take ya to some other temple. There’s one just over the ridge that way.”

“That’s a Shinto temple, puppy.”

“So? It’s a temple, so what!”

“That won’t be necessary,” Keito says, pushing his spectacles up on his nose as he gets to his feet. It’s painful, but not debilitatingly so. He raises a hand to his head, feeling a raised welt among the prickling skin of his scalp. He must have been unconscious through the night and the day, he realizes, feeling how far his hair has grown. He itches to shave into proper teihatsu once more, but what’s the point? “God has made his choice,” he says quietly. “I believe he wants me to serve in some other way.”

“Eh? He tell ya that?”

Oogami doesn’t seem to understand, but Sakuma, Keito thinks, watching a tiny smile grace the man’s elegant mouth, does. He’s generous enough not to say, _So you got a taste of adventure and this is a convenient excuse to get more_ , which Keito appreciates. 

And at least, he thinks, as both men get an arm around him despite his protestations, he isn’t setting out on the long road alone.

 

_Six Months Later_

 

“You didn’t say you know the daimyo.”

Keito moves one of his pieces, facing Rei across from a Go board. His legs ache from dancing, his abdomen hurts from playing the flute for hours on end, and it’s all he can do to stay upright in seiza. 

Rei, curse him, doesn’t seem to be tired in the slightest. Nor does Oogami, despite the fact that those two had done trick after trick more than him, a combination of song, acrobatics, and comedy routine that Keito had scripted. They’d entertained their small crowd, then bowed obediently until all donations had been accepted.

And then Eichi had arrived.

It would have been rude to refuse such a lavish accommodation when offered, so now they sit, playing Go on a tatami mat, waiting to be summoned by his servants. 

Keito moves another piece, after Rei’s move. “We met as children,” he explains. “My parents served his grandfather. I didn’t know he was the ruling lord, or would be. Honestly, as sickly as he is, I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“If he’s that rich,” Koga mutters, sharpening one of his long knives, “and he’s your friend, make him give us some food.”

“Honestly, puppy, you think too small. All you want is some food?”

Koga scowls. “I’m not a damn charity case! We got everything we need, don’t we?”

“He doesn’t want to give us food,” Keito says quietly. “He wants to give us a theater.”

Silence falls. Rei moves a piece, one eyebrow raised in what could be amusement, or rage. He’s difficult to read like that. “Well. You two certainly said a lot in the few minutes I left you alone, didn’t you?”

“We...not that it matters,” Keito says, trying not to sound defensive, “but we used to talk about that kind of thing as children. I used to write scripts, and he’d act and sing--”

“Wait a minute! We’re doin’ recycled scripts an’ stuff?” Koga growls, face darker than Keito would really like to see on someone currently holding a very sharp knife.

Keito shoots him a withering look. “Hardly. We were of an age where I’d write him, I don’t know, Momotarou or something, and he’d get to come out of a peach, and then I’d also be the villagers desperately impressed with him. It’s nothing special, just children playing. Mostly it was an excuse for him to make me feed him dango.” 

He folds his arms, trying to ignore the fact that he’s about to lose quite handily at Go for the ninth time in a row. “He always said he’d help me start a theater someday. I suppose he’s finally fulfilling that obligation, now that he’s the daimyo.”

“So.” Rei sits back from the game board, legs askew, always seeming to take up more space than a man of such a narrow frame should. He wears his kimono loose, not well-fitting enough for propriety, draping in a way that makes Keito want to rip it off of him. “You want us to become his puppets, then.”

“What? No.”

“And perform the plays he wants to see?”

“Well, doubtless he’ll have requests--”

“And adjust our schedule to his, and censor the acts to his tastes?” Rei demands, eyes flashing. “I refuse.”

Keito gapes, entirely taken aback. “W-what? This is a _gift_ , it’s not as though he’s asking us to be in his debt--”

“Of course we’d be in his debt,” Rei scoffs, and starts plucking pieces off of the board, knowing the conclusion as well as Keito does. “That’s what happens when someone gives you something in exchange for nothing.”

“Money doesn’t matter to him,” Keito insists. “He just wants to be our patron.”

“Keito. Do you think I couldn’t get gainful employment in a daimyo’s estate?”

The question brings Keito up short. He’d wondered why someone so schooled in courtly graces had forsaken what had obviously been a highly-regarded position, of course, but there are certain things about which one does not ask. “That...is your own reason, I suppose,” he mutters, not meeting Rei’s eyes.

“I don’t want to live by some bastard’s whims. I thought you were the same.”

Hurt flashes in Keito’s face, hot behind his skin. “I am,” he insists. “Eichi isn’t just somebody, he’s my friend. I owe him loyalty.”

“How do you know he didn’t burn down your temple, just to force you into this?” Rei accuses, and Keito stands, nostrils flaring beneath the bridge of his spectacles. 

“Take back your accusation.”

Rei doesn’t bother to stand, nor does he look particularly bothered by Keito’s anger. There’s a tense, unhappy silence, and then Rei waves a long, delicate hand. “Fine. I’ll trust you. But you have to explain it to the puppy.”

Koga growls deep in his throat, setting aside the tsuzumi he’d been tuning. “Damn bastard...ya think I’m some kinda delicate flower that needs protecting?”

“Nooo, I think you’re our precious puppy that--”

Koga aims a kick at Rei’s head, which he dodges easily. Then, looking like he wants to be anywhere in the world but where he’s sitting, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, he looks up at Keito. “I used to work in a theater,” he mutters. “He’s tryin’ to keep me from havin’ to say I won’t go back. But this...this ain’t gonna be that kinda theater, right?”

“Of course not.” Keito doesn’t want to say he hadn’t expected something of the sort, but Koga’s rough, wild manner certainly gives him pause. Perhaps the reason he acts so now is because he hadn’t been permitted to in the past. “Lord Tenshouin likes to play his games, but I think he’s a fundamentally good person. Well, sort of. If he has the opportunity to be...and he doesn’t think it’s...funny...to be...”

Rei rolls his eyes, and pulls out his kiseru. “Make sure you know what you’re getting us into,” he warns. “I spent what was left of my inheritance ransoming the puppy’s contract. And I doubt my father will die again to get the rest of us out of trouble. Where is this theater, anyway?”

“Hmm...” Keito pulls a scroll out of his waist, where Eichi had tucked it, eyes glittering with delight. “Someplace right in Edo, that’s nice. He gave it the name I always said I wanted to, when we were children, the _Akatsuki_.”

“Edo?” Koga seems to perk up at that, rocking forward on his knees. “I got some friends there. What part?”

Keito shrugs. “I’ve never been, I don’t know the districts well. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Rei sighs, lighting his pipe in the brazier. “I suppose not. But Keito...no contracts. Or we leave.”

 

_Eight Months Later_

 

Hammer hits tongs. Sparks fly. All around Keito, the world moves, people bustling to and from their tasks, ignoring him as he kneels in a blacksmith’s shop, head to the ground, facing a large man holding a large hammer. Keito’s hair is longer, long enough to fall around his ears, long enough that he usually forgets how it had felt, to shave it every morning in preparation for the day’s penance. In his hands, clutched to his chest, are two scrolls, with paperwork that had damned his relationships with the only two people he’d wanted to build a life with, two people who had walked out of the Akatsuki without looking back with the morning light.

And in front of him, steadily hammering away at a horseshoe, stands one man that could possibly change his fortunes for the better. 

“Kiryuu-san. I know this sounds abrupt and out of nowhere.”

“Not really,” the big man grunts, slamming his hammer down on rapidly hardening iron. “You been hangin’ ‘round here botherin’ me for days. Thought you’d give up before now.”

“I don’t give up when there’s something I really want.” That had been the problem in the end, hadn’t it? There was something he’d wanted more than Rei and Koga, more than the life the three of them had planned to build. There was something they had wanted more than him, too--freedom, that elusive, stupid dream that only fools chased. That doesn’t matter anymore. “And I want you to leave this place and work in the Akatsuki with me.”

The hammer hits the tongs hard, three loud bangs in succession, before Kiryuu puts up his hammer, wiping sweat from his brow and leaving a long black stain behind. “Why,” he asks, one ruddy eyebrow raised, “in all the hells, would I wanna leave a good clean job an’ work in a whorehouse? I make all right money, and from what I’ve seen, you can’t offer much more.”

“Less,” Keito says truthfully. “At least at first. But if we’re successful, we will eventually be making much, much more.”

“Uh huh. Which is why you want me to sign one of them contracts sayin’ I’ll work for you for ten years.”

Head down, Keito curses those infernal scrolls of paper. They’d cost him his friendships, and might cost him his entire business, if he isn’t careful. No, if he isn’t _determined_. Care hadn’t kept his temple from burning down. It hadn’t kept Rei and Koga by his side. Now, there’s no one to rely on but himself. “The city requires me to have contracts for each employee. Just last week they executed dozens of managers who didn’t have the proper paperwork, I won’t let that happen at my establishment. Give the money right back and ransom it from me, for all I care. I don’t want a slave, I want a partner.”

“In a whorehouse.” Muscled arms cross, and the man looks amused. “Why me?”

“Because it’s _not_ a kagemajaya, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Keito lifts his head, adjusts his spectacles, and meets Kiryuu’s eyes without flinching. “I know no one expects a theater like mine to have any artistic merit. I want to challenge that. I write scripts--they’re not just for show, so we can keep operating as a theater. I don’t want to churn out the kind of useless nonsense that some of these places do, just so we can skirt under the shogun’s rules about the flesh trade.”

“Uh huh. And why _me_? You’re avoidin’ the question. I don’t think I’ll make a good girl.”

Keito snorts. “You’d never be an onnagata. There are male roles, too. Great ones--you’ll be Musashibou Benkei in Senbon Zakura, Muranao in Chuushingura, Benten Kozou! And as for you...” He swallows, and gambles. “You’re a man of refined tastes. No one here would think it of you, but you’re more than this, I know it. You’re the one they talk about, aren’t you? Your little sister says you’ve got a hermit brother at home that makes all the clothing she sells, but you don’t, do you?”

Kiryuu’s eyes darken, and he steps forward, as if trying to bully Keito’s words back into his mouth. He looks around, seeing if they’d been overheard. “Gotta pay the bills since our mother died,” he grunts. “She used to have the business...no one else’s got the talent for it.”

“But for how long?” Keito sees it now, his glimmer of hope, and grabs it with everything he has. “How long until a careless slip of your hammer, and your hands don’t work anymore? The way you move--I’ve watched you for weeks, I saw you dance at Kanda Matsuri, the way you move is incredible.”

He watches the man’s chest puff up. Yes, flattery is his method to get what he wants here, he decides. “Join my theater. You’ll be the leading man, and you can make all of our costumes. I’ll write the scripts.”

“And the onnagata?” Kiryuu’s eyebrows raise, and hope flares hot in Keito’s breast. “Just ‘cuz you don’t want me to dress up pretty and spread my legs, you can’t have much of a theater in Yoshiwara without at least one. Men’ll riot. Unless...” One corner of his mouth quirks. “You plannin’ to wear the red kimono?”

“Don’t be absurd, I’m too tall and my hair is too short, and I look like a bookkeeper.”

Kiryuu barks out a laugh. “At least this doesn’t sound like a pity project. Who, then?”

“I have a few options. One of the workers at the Falling Star, the bathhouse? I think a couple of their sansuke might be interested in a career change,” Keito explains. “Though the one who really wants to work for me is too young, and to muscled, anyways. I have a few other ideas, but I wanted to contract with you first.”

“Because of my costumes?”

Keito hesitates. “Because you seem like the best fit,” he says honestly. “And because I plan on us being quite successful, and if I hire you, I won’t need a costumer _or_ a bodyguard in addition to my leading man.”

“You expect trouble.”

“Wherever men drink, there’ll be trouble.”

“Heh. You sound like a priest.”

Keito looks away. He doesn’t have to do this. He doesn’t have to be here, on his knees in a blacksmith’s shop. He could walk up to any temple, borrow a razor, and take his vows again. His life would be one of quiet contemplation, of prayer and clean work. Maybe he could even start his garden once more. 

_And I’d never have a theater of my own._

The dream had been so ephemeral when he’d been young, but ever since he’d stepped foot in that drafty, spacious building, he’d felt at home at once, felt a sense of belonging. “I think,” he says finally, “that you’ll love it like I do. That’s why you.”

Kiryuu wavers. His hand rests on the forge table, firm and calloused but not without dexterity. Looking down at his own hands, he takes a last look at the forge, one Keito recognizes from the day his temple had burned. “I--”

The whinny of a panicked horse splits the air. Keito’s head snaps around, and sees the source--a single rider, nearly falling from his horse, staggering through the city gates. Before Keito can move, Kiryuu is faster, dashing into the streets and shouldering people out of the way, grabbing the reins with what looks like no fear that he’ll be stomped or kicked. Keito follows, tucking the scrolls into his obi, seeing the reason for the horse’s scream. 

Deep wounds, wounds he recognizes as arrow grazes and the occasional deep nick, mar the magnificent beast’s sides. The rider on top, a young samurai, looks close to death, swaying in his seat, hand still in a death grip on his sword’s hilt. Keito doesn’t even have time to object before Kiryuu leads the snorting beast into the blacksmith’s stables, where the horses come to be shod. “Get him off,” he snaps, and Keito complies, finding it far too easy to tug the boy off his horse, where he immediately slumps to the floor, moaning, half-conscious. 

Keito checks him over quickly, and finds his pulse steady, but far too quick. He brushes the long ponytail away from the boy’s face, and fights bright eyes staring back at him, wide in fear. “He--he’s coming, he found me,” the boy babbles, hands scrabbling at Keito’s kimono, holding him tightly. “Please--on my honor, on my honor, on my family’s name--whatever you want, I will repay, please, don’t let him find me--on the Kanzaki family name--”

“Poor thing is scared to death,” Kiryuu rumbles, though Keito thinks he’s talking about the horse. “God, he’s beautiful. Horse like this’d cost me two years pay, who’d shoot at such a beast? There, now, there, now, you’re safe, you’re fine.”

“He can’t be more than twelve,” Keito murmurs, aghast, looking at the child’s sweaty face. Some instinct comes over him, and he strokes the boy’s hair, assuring him, “No one is going to harm you, child. Be at your ease, you’re safe.”

A commotion sounds outside, and Keito peeks out, standing protectively over the shivering boy. Through the crowd, he catches a glimpse of one of the few men carrying a sword in Yoshiwara, and his blood runs cold. “That’s a yoriki,” he whispers, eyes wide. “Kiryuu--”

“Boy must be someone important. Or stole from someone important.”

“He’s just a child.” That protective instinct burns in Keito again, and he looks sideways at Kiryuu. “Can you say you found the horse riderless?”

The big man snorts. “I would, if I thought you could carry him out of here. Your arms look like twigs.”

Keito wipes a hand down his face. “Boy, can you walk?”

The boy tries to get to his feet, but slumps back with a groan, clutching his leg. Keito looks, and sees a dark patch of blood. “He’s injured. Can you carry him--”

“And leave you here?” Kiryuu shakes his head. “You don’t belong here, everyone knows it.” He looks around, and makes a split-second decision, lifting the boy as gently as he can. “Leave the horse. Everyone saw it come in here, no hiding it.”

The boy murmurs something, reaching feebly to the horse, but both men ignore him. “You want your horse?” Keito asks sternly. “Or do you want to live?”

Slowly, with a sob muffled into Kuro’s chest, the boy drops his arm. 

This, Keito knows, is deeply stupid. This child is probably a thief, and courting the displeasure of the police is something that aspiring theater owners who want to be successful theater owners do not do. Kiryuu leads him into the back of the shop, where he grabs a big cloth bundle, slinging it over one shoulder, the boy over the other. Then he leads Keito out the back door, walking as nonchalantly as possible, attempting to blend in with the crowd. 

Three streets away, however, Keito hears a shout, and his heart sinks, despite how fast it starts beating. “They’ve seen us,” he says quietly, his shoulder nudging Kiryuu’s. 

“How far are we?” 

“Too far.”

Movement from both sides of the street catches Keito’s eye. He swallows hard around a lump in his throat, and makes a split-second decision, jerking his head at a shrine and leading the way inside, bowing quickly at the gates. “Put him down. You have other clothes in that bag?”

“Lots.” 

“Put something on him, _fast_. Red, if you have it.”

“Red?”

“There isn’t time for your questions,” Keito hisses. He watches nervously as Kiryuu dresses the boy, not bothering with undressing him first, just dragging a prostitute’s kimono over his far more expensive clothes. The boy blinks slowly, but doesn’t struggle.

“Are you conscious?” Keito asks, hearing the voices, the footsteps approaching. Hesitantly, the boy nods. “Do you want to go with those men?”

A shake of the head.

Keito exhales deeply, and knows he’s doing something awful. “Then trust me. Give me a name, not your real name.”

“Oi,” Kiryuu says suddenly, watching Keito pull one of the scrolls out of his obi. “That’s--”

“Shut up,” Keito snaps. Fortunately, the boy is either so out of it or so obedient that he signs immediately on Keito’s mark, pulling his seal out of a pouch at his waist. 

No sooner is the mark complete than the yoriki and several of his men enter the shrine through the gates, not bothering to bow. They catch sight of the three men and approach, the yoriki calling, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I have words with your companion, please.”

“I have no companion,” Keito says smoothly, bowing deeply. “I believe perhaps you have been misinformed, my lord.”

The yoriki cocks his head. “I’m seeking a thief. I have orders from Daimyo Kawamura Sumitoshi to track this thief to the waters on all sides of Japan.”

Inwardly, Keito wants to scream. Of all the men this child could have angered, why one of the daimyo more rich, more influential than any others he could name, save Eichi? Outwardly, he simply bows again. “I wish you the best of luck in your duties, my lord. May I assist you in any way?”

“Step aside.” The yoriki nods at two of his men, who advance on Keito. “If you’re hiding him, you’ll be put to death as well.”

_Please don’t know him personally, please don’t know him personally_ , _great Buddha, please let this man be carrying out orders based on what he’s heard, and not a personal relationship with the boy_ , Keito prays frantically, and steps to the side. 

Even he is surprised by what he sees. Kiryuu works faster than he’d expected. The boy’s face has been cleaned, his hair taken down and braided into loose falls around his face, obi expertly tied in the front, a flash of red at his chest and legs meant to tantalize. Perhaps Kiryuu had whispered instructions as well, for the boy looks up once, then pulls out a fan, demurely hiding his face. Up close, Keito can see how fast the boy is breathing, and how he sways slightly on his feet, but the illusion is incredibly convincing. “If my apprentice here has stolen something from Kawamura-sama,” he calls, “I’ll be the first to string him up, of course.”

“Your...apprentice?”

Keito bows low again, and pulls out the scroll, opening it to show the men. “This boy is my apprentice at the theater Akatsuki. Please, if you must look closely, only linger on those parts of him that seem womanly. The illusion is imperfect, I’ve only had him for a year.”

One of the yoriki’s men frowns at the scroll. “Your theater is commissioned by...Daimyo Tenshouin?”

“My generous patron,” Keito agrees, with another bow at the mention of Eichi’s name. “He’ll be in town next weekend, to inaugurate the theater’s first performance. Should you wish to evaluate my apprentice’s talents, you are welcome to come, free of charge, my lords.”

The yoriki looks at Souma, frowning. “Boy,” he finally barks. “What’s your family house?”

Keito looks back at the boy, swaying on his feet, and prays. 

Slowly, the boy lowers his fan, looking demurely at the yoriki’s feet. “I have no house,” he says softly. 

The yoriki relaxes. “That’s that, then. Kawamura-sama’s thief was honor-mad, he said. He must have gone out a different way, come on.” Before he leaves the gates, he hesitates, looking back once more. “Next weekend, eh?”

Keito nods, and the man smiles, walking out with his subordinates. Keito’s heart gives a relieved thump, his knees hit the ground, and everything fizzles out.

 

“....key.”

“Mm?”

“The key, danna.”

Keito claws his way out of unconsciousness, only to find himself looking at Kiryuu’s knees from behind. Dark hair swings slowly next to his, and the pounding in his head suddenly makes sense. He’s upside down, draped over one of Kiryuu’s enormous shoulders, the boy draped over the other. “You’re far too strong,” he mutters, and squirms until Kiryuu releases him, and he can fumble for his keys. 

They’re at the theater Akatsuki, in front of the main door. He unlocks it, and the next few minutes are a whirlwind of boiling water, tea, bandages, undressing, and bedding, until the boy is finally more or less conscious, sitting in a futon and sipping a hot cup of tea. He’d recovered faster than Keito had expected, and the wound in his thigh had turned out to be just a graze, which bled badly but was easily staunched. 

“So,” Keito says finally, when he’s certain the boy isn’t about to die of fever, “am I sheltering a dangerous criminal?”

The boy’s head bows over his tea. He takes in a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “My name is Kanzaki Souma. My father is a daimyo in Shiga. And I...” 

He drains his tea, and Keito refills it wordlessly. 

“I ran away from my master. I...this is too much of an opposition. If you like, I will commit seppuku immediately, if you give me my sword.”

“Ah, I don’t think that will be necessary. Please continue.”

The boy nods, as if taking this refusal in stride. What an odd child. He rolls the teacup between his palms, watching the liquid swirl. “My father...is a good man. He allowed me to apprentice to a man that treated me well, but my master...he died in a raid, a few months ago. I was going to have my genpuku last month, but...”

He breathes deeply for a moment, tucking the hair behind his ears, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Kawamura-dono saw me dance at our last festival. He approached Father and asked to take me as an apprentice. Father told him I was already apprenticed and about to come of age, but...Kawamura-dono came to me privately and courted me. He offered me...great opportunities. And for my brother, as well. I felt it would be churlish to refuse my family the chance to advance just for the sake of my genpuku.”

His lower lip quivers and he looks up, eyes shining with emotion. “After he took me on formally, I...he is not the man he appears to be. He refused to let me fight on the field. He forbade any barbers from cutting my hair. He--did other things that I found...dishonorable.” The way he spits the word makes it sound as if there is no greater insult in the Japanese language. “Things of which I will not even speak. And I endured it, of course! I am not the first samurai in the world to have an unpleasant master.”

“Until,” Kiryuu prompts, when the boy falls silent.

Slowly, Souma nods. “Until. Kawamura-dono told me he was delaying my genpuku, that he told the shogun I didn’t have the field experience--that he forbade me!--so he needed to keep me a child, a _child_ , instead of a warrior, until...” HIs mouth turns as if he’d bitten a lemon. “Until I was thirty, or until my looks ran out, he said. I should be a daimyo by then, a samurai of rank and name! I should have a family and children by then!”

“So you ran away?”

The look on Souma’s face is affronted, aghast. “For such a slight? No, I confronted Kawamura-dono and attempted to commit seppuku in protest. He...he _laughed_ at me.” The boy’s eyes are dark, stormy. “I tried everything. I was patient and obedient. I did more than was asked of me. I hoped that standing up to him would make him think I was worthy of respect. Finally I tried to take my horse and follow him on a raid. And he...”

A tear falls from his eyes now, and he scrubs at it with his sleeve. “He was attacking my home. My family. My brother and father. In the night, like a bandit! I tried...to stop him.”

The bitterness overcomes his voice, and he looks down at his knees again, the tea gone cold in his cup. “I confronted him and challenged him. He...defeated me. I tried to commit seppuku, but he stopped me--he told me that if I did, he’d tell everyone I was a traitor, and use it as an excuse to steal my family’s lands. And if I warned my father...about what kind of man he is...my father is very honorable. He would have felt honor-compelled to face Kawamura-dono. And though his men are fierce and brave, there are not nearly so many of them as Kawamura-dono has.” 

His lip quivers again, this time, Keito thinks, in shame. “I couldn’t think of what else to do. If I stayed, I would be nothing but his toy. If I committed seppuku, my father’s estate would be forfeit. If I went to my father, he would rise up, and surely all my family would die.”

“So _then_ you ran away.”

Slowly, Souma nods. “He sent men after me. I evaded them, but my horse...he was wounded, and I hadn’t had anything to eat in a week. Thank you, my lords, for saving me. If it pleases you for me to comm--”

“Don’t commit seppuku,” Keito says tiredly, for what feels like the tenth time in the same day. 

The boy nods. “Very well. Then...I suppose I belong to you, now? I didn’t read the contract, I apologize.”

Keito starts. “Oh. The contract? That doesn’t matter, I was just trying to get you away from the men chasing you.”

“Nevertheless, I signed in my own hand, did I not?” The boy looks resigned, but if anything, more relieved than he had before, more at peace. “I don’t mind working for my place. You will not find my cooking or cleaning skills lacking, I swear.”

Keito and Kiryuu exchange a look. “Ah...the thing is...this is a theater.”

“Is it?” Souma brightens. “I’m a very good dancer, and I do play the flute.”

“Er, yes, but...” The child seems so innocent, Keito suddenly feels quite dirty. “We’re in Yoshiwara, do you know where that is?”

“Mm, Edo, I think?”

“Yes. But I mean, do you know what kind of place this is?”

“A theater!”

A headache throbs behind Keito’s eyes. “Ah. Yes.”

“It’s a theater where men go,” Kiryuu butts in, “to enjoy themselves.”

“Isn’t every theater like that?” Souma asks, smiling now. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard stories. I like dancing very much, ah, what were your names?”

“Keito,” Keito says with a sigh, resigning himself. 

“You can call me Kuro,” Kiryuu says, surprising Keito. “Here in a theater, we use our personal names.”

_We_. Keito looks up, only to see Kuro give him a wry smile. _So he’s joining me after all_. Somehow, harboring a criminal and fainting seem to have won him over, which is an unexpected relief. 

“Aha! Then, Keito-dono, Kuro-dono, please simply call me Souma.” The boy hesitates, then adds, “Perhaps it is for the best. If I have employment here, my family will not need to feel the pressure of supporting me, nor harboring me. Yes, I will work in this theater, and serve out my contract.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Keito insists. “You didn’t sign it with your real name, so--”

“Yes, I did. I just did it blurry.” The boy beams. “It wouldn’t mean anything if it were a false name, Keito-dono. I don’t swear false oaths.”

Keito stares at the boy for a long moment. “You’re too young. What are you, fourteen?”

“I’m nearly nineteen!”

“Liar.”

“I would never! I’d rather commit se--”

“Yes, yes, seppuku. Are you really eighteen?”

Souma huffs, setting his empty teacup aside. “My whole family is short, and I’ve always been slender. I wouldn’t have been furious at my master’s determination to keep me from genpuku if I were so young, Keito-dono.”

_Not likely to grow_ , Keito’s mind prods him, and he tries to silence it. There’s no denying that Souma is lovely, something he allows himself to notice now that he knows the boy’s age. “Well, fine,” he says, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. “I’ll write you in as the young lord for our first performance.”

“Oh?” Souma cocks his head. “If it isn’t too much trouble, Keito-dono, I’ve always played the parts of the young lady, in all performances at our estate.”

Silence falls in the room, just before Kuro barks out a laugh. “Oi, kid, you know what kinds of things the onnagata get up to in theaters like this?”

“Playing women’s roles?”

“Yeah. In bed with patrons, too.”

“Kiryuu...” Keito sighs, rubbing his forehead. “That’s not a--”

“Very well.” Souma clenches a fist, looking determined. “I won’t let you down, Kuro-dono, Keito-dono.”

Keito stops in the middle of his sentence, mouth open. “I--you--really?”

“I _was_ a samurai’s apprentice,” Souma says cheerfully. “My first master was very complimentary on my skills. Ah, please don’t think that I advanced quickly due to his approval of my wakashuu skills, however! There were rumors that I advanced due to my master’s pleasure with me, but I am talented with sword as well.”

“I can’t tell if I have a headache or not,” Keito mutters. “You do know that we’re talking about prostitution, yes?”

“Yes,” Souma confirms, much to Keito’s relief. “And this will be of service to you?”

“Ah, until you work off your contract,” Keito agrees. “I’ll make certain you’re paid, of course. Half the pay you earn will go to you, and half will come to me. I’ll pay your room and board and secure you clientele, and you can use your savings towards paying off your contract, or for whatever you like.”

“Excellent. That seems very fair. Thank you, Keito-dono!”

It still doesn’t sound as if Souma _really_ knows what he’s talking about, and Keito asks hesitantly, “You...I hate to ask again, but you _have_ had sex with a man before, yes?”

“Ah.” Souma smiles, as if he’s expected the question, and unties his obi, sudden and businesslike, shedding his kimono. “My father always told me never to boast if you aren’t prepared to offer proof.”

“Wait, that’s not--”

Souma unties his hakama, kneeling suddenly nude, hair falling long over his shoulders and chest. His body is lovely, toned and taut, and more slender than he looks with all of the clothes on. “There is likely much more I have to learn,” he says earnestly, looking between Keito and Kuro with no apparent hint of shame. “Please teach me what you wish me to know, I will be a good student.”

Kuro still looks baffled, but Keito resigns himself to a life of true debauchery. _Sorry, Buddha_ , he thinks, and takes Souma’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “First,” he says quietly, “act more demure. This isn’t your samurai lord. You want your patrons to think that they’ve won you over in the end.”

“Oh. Like this?” Souma frowns, and slaps Keito’s hand away.

“Ow. Not like that. That hurt.”

“My apologies, Keito-dono! I will--”

“If you say the word seppuku one more time today I’m going to have Kuro snap your sword in half,” Keito says with a groan. “Just learn. And don’t hit me.”

“Ah...all right...”

Keito stares for a moment, then shakes his head. “It’s too hard to direct while being a part of it. Kuro. Consider this his audition.”

Kuro shoots him a look that clearly says he thinks Keito is insane, but then he shrugs. “All right. What first?”

“Yank him onto your lap.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Kuro promises the boy, who nods, looking completely unafraid as he’s tugged into the big man’s lap. “Men might get kinda rough with you sometimes, but--”

“I have endured pain before,” Souma says, eyes blazing. He looks at Keito, then immediately moves off of Kuro’s lap, onto his hands and knees, so blatant a position that Keito feels himself blushing a little, despite his erstwhile profession. “Ah, Kuro-dono, do you have any oils? My master found it more pleasurable to--”

“First lesson,” Keito interrupts, as Kuro follows his nod, looking in one of his chests for a bottle of something to use. “Don’t tell your clients what to do. Some of them will want to do this for you, but you should always do it yourself before you take a client to your room.”

“That’s very intelligent, Keito-dono! You are truly a genius!”

“I’m not going to live through this,” Keito mutters.

“You have studied this in great detail, then?”

Keito opens his mouth, then closes it, not sure if Souma is making fun of him or not. Then Kuro returns, and kneels behind Souma, tugging him up onto just his knees. “Let a man kiss you first,” he rumbles, brushing Souma’s hair to one side, brushing a kiss to his neck. Privately, Keito assumes that Kuro has been without a lover for quite some time, if Souma’s blatant, eager display is enough to make him excited. He seems more like an overexcited colt than an elegant kagema, all awkward limbs and clenched determination.

And then Souma shivers.

It’s a silent ripple of a noise, but it changes the way Souma holds himself completely. His head lolls to the side, back arching, knees splaying further apart, shoulders losing their tension. The change makes the hair stand up on Keito’s arms, and the effect on Kuro is even more visible. Large hands curl around Souma’s waist, and Kuro meets Keito’s eyes. “That’s nice,” he says, voice low and rough. “That’s real nice, kid. You like it with everyone, or just men like me?”

Souma arches back against him, blinking. “Hmm?”

“Forget it.”

Keito watches them without commentary for several minutes, watching Kuro touch Souma, kiss him, guide him into place. From Souma’s reactions, his earlier boasting hadn’t been just for show. If anything, those rumors about his master advancing him quickly due to his skills in this area were probably at least part based on truth. At least, if anyone had ever seen Souma like this around his master, it would have been quite an understandable rumor. _I wonder if he loved the man._ Ideas for a tragic romance script dance in Keito’s mind, egged on by watching Kuro slide a slick finger into the boy, and Souma’s breathy cry in response. 

Wildly, Keito wonders at how quickly they’d come from being strangers to this. Hells, this morning he’d hardly known Kuro, and now he’s watching the man slide deep into their new apprentice, making the boy’s hands curl into fists, face screwed up in pleasure, mouth open as he pants. “Is he bigger than your master?” Keito asks without meaning to, finding himself entranced by the look on Souma’s face.

Souma nods. “That’s not...bad,” he grunts, bracing himself on his clenched fists, as Kuro’s hands steady his hips. “Kuro-dono feels...n-nice...”

“Learn to tell men how much you like it,” Keito says quietly. He scoots closer, enough that he can touch Souma’s hair, winding the inky strands around a long finger. “Tell them how good they feel inside you, hmm? Tell them that no one touches you like this, that you can’t think from all the pleasure they’re sending through your body.”

“I--I can’t,” Souma chokes out, a tear falling from his eye. 

Keito thinks for a moment that he’s in pain, but pulling back, he sees that Souma’s cock is achingly hard, hanging down and bobbing with every one of Kuro’s thrusts. “You really were made for this life,” he murmurs, not bothering to stop himself from reaching down, starting to stroke the quivering flesh, feeling it hot to the touch. “You don’t hate the idea of living like this, do you?”

Souma pants hard, rocking back and forth, eyes glazed. Keito has rarely seen such an expression after so short a time, and he strokes faster, wanting to bring that look to his face over and over again. “You enjoy serving men like this, don’t you?”

Apparently, that’s too much, and Souma’s back arches like a cat’s, his body tensing suddenly as hot liquid spills over Keito’s hand. He doesn’t stop moving, bucking back onto Kuro for long minutes, until Kuro’s fingers curl hard around Souma’s hips, dragging him back for a few hard, deep thrusts, until he stills with a grunt. 

Keito licks his lips. He pulls back, stroking Souma’s hair with his clean hand. “That was very good,” he murmurs, and Souma looks as if he’s glowing with pride, trembling and sweat-damp as he is. “The next lesson is less enjoyable. When a man is finished--”

“Clean him up before finding my rest,” Souma sighs, looking up with a small smile. “Don’t worry, Keito-dono. I have never been too spoiled to take care in my duties.”

Once more, Keito finds himself at a loss for words. He’d expected the boy to be pampered, his bravado at least mostly for a show. But as he watches, Souma carefully pulls off, then hunts around for a cloth, wiping Kuro down before pressing it between his legs. 

“Ask a client before you do that part,” Kuro says, leaning back on his hands, sounding very sated. “Some like to watch it for a bit.”

That’s the first thing that makes Souma blanch, looking appalled. He swallows his tongue and his pride, though, and nods. “Ah...may I...”

“Yeah, do it now.”

Gratefully, Souma wipes himself again, then discards the soiled cloth to the side, settling back into seiza before looking expectantly up at Keito. “Ah, Keito-dono...I would be more than pleased to serve you as well?”

Keito opens his mouth.

Souma lays a hand on his thigh.

Keito closes his mouth.

Hours later, sweat-soaked and exhausted, being gently washed by his new apprentice’s careful hands, Keito reflects that he doesn’t really miss his life as a priest much after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> otera-san - form of address for a Japanese monk in Western Japan  
> teihatsu - the shaved head of a buddhist monk  
> yoriki - highly-ranked police officer, who worked directly with daimyo.

**Author's Note:**

> oh god should i continue with this or
> 
> Notes/glossary:  
> Yoshiwara - Famous pleasure district in Edo (current Tokyo) with both male and female prostitution. There were many kinds and many ranks; the apprentice kabuki actors were the most “respectable,” next to the geisha, who were not prostitutes.  
> Oiran - a high-class female entertainer and prostitute who had the ability to refuse any client she didn't wish. Very, very costly. Good luck, Kaoru.  
> Mother - The manager or owner of a “teahouse” such as the Akatsuki would be referred to as Mother by the boys, regardless of gender.  
> Tatami - woven rice straw mats used as flooring in Japan. Traditionally used as a luxury item since they smell lovely and were a step up from compact earth floors. Currently only used in very traditional rooms.  
> Minogame - Legendary sea turtles so old that sweaweed grows on their shells.  
> Fundoshi - wrapped cloth underwear  
> Kagemajaya - A lower-class brothel that doesn’t pretend to be a theater. The indignation would be similar to saying something like, “I’m not a street hooker, I’m an escort!” I suppose.  
> Onnagata - A male who plays a woman onstage in kabuki theater. There were no female actors in Japan in the 1700s, so men who could convincingly play women’s roles were in high demand.  
> Kagema - A catch-all term for male prostitutes, usually young men (but they would frequently act and dress younger than they were, up to the age of 30-40 pretending to be teenagers), ranging from high-class to low.  
> Kiseru - A pipe, stuffed with finely shredded tobacco that looks like hair


End file.
